LIMITS

By Clay Stafford

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I was raised to believe that when I came to an obstacle, it was a personal shortcoming if I did not push through, a personal failure if I did not succeed, and a personal cowardice if I gave up. Those beliefs inhabited the marrow of my bones and festered in the recesses of my brain. I had no natural limits, none of us did, or so I thought and was bred to believe. Even giving credence to such an absurd suggestion felt irresponsible. I knew I and everyone else could overcome anything if we only pushed hard enough. There was no skill we couldn’t learn, no talent we couldn’t expand, no mountain we could not climb. I not only judged myself; I judged everyone. I taught it to my students and in my lectures. We all needed to be responsible for the optimal performance of our lives. It was called being dependable, being responsible, rising to the challenge, working harder and smarter, and pushing through. The push was always highly emotional, causing stress and conflict not only in me but in all my relationships, where others’ performances fell short, but I knew it was worth it. It brought out the best in all of us. Like a winning coach, I pushed myself and those around me. And when they pushed back, I viewed their lack of participation as denial and even laziness. Emotionally wrought, I could never see the mental clarity lost in this thinking. From the dejected faces of those I lived and worked with, it seemed I failed in the very presence that I thought I was being, the one I thought I was protecting. Even in that, I strove to do better.

The satisfaction of control brought me peace, or so I thought. I put myself in charge of my destiny. I oversaw my own future, and nothing could get in the way of that, and very little did. I offered every problem and relationship a doorway that could make things easier for me and everyone around me, but if it was blocked, I had no qualms about going through the wall. Pushing longer, harder, and stronger was, to me, a form of commitment. Staying with a problem until the end of the day, even if that day ran into the night, or even several days without sleep, was applaudable devotion and intention. Accepting limits or growing tired meant one had no self-respect. This was how a meaningful life was to be built; the lives of the great men and women I read in biographies exemplified that. They pushed through because they had something all of us could acquire: character. They built meaningful lives; I would, too. Endurance, discipline, and refusal to quit were the framework of success. Refusal to quit meant refusal to retreat, like cowards, like those who were weak. Even rest itself, I told myself, could wait. “I can sleep when I’m dead” was not uncommon coming out of my mouth in reply to those who were close to me and cared, as I popped my trucker’s caffeine pills, drank my ten Cuban coffees, and my gallon of daily tea.

The cost of this thinking and living with such force didn’t show up immediately. It took decades. That’s the deception we take to heart when we believe the deceitfulness chocked at us by the sycophants of the famous. The famous lied to the watching world, the obsequious flatterers lied to readers of books about great men and women, and then I took those as truths and lied to myself. Sure, the lies gave me extra waking time, or something that resembled it anyway. I learned how to stretch the day thinner, how to draw more from myself than I thought I could. The point that activity didn’t always equal accomplishment, though, was often lost on me. What I gained in hours, I lost, though I didn’t realize it, in life and relational clarity. After decades of this rat race, my attention to the important things, not just the walls to burst through, began to dull. My decisions about where to focus slowed. Simple things began to take longer, though I attributed that to age. Regardless, the very life I had always believed I was protecting by defining my own fate began to resist me.

I began to see, or rather I began to feel, that the very wall that I could not seem to push through was myself. Nothing dramatic happened to show me this. Fatigue didn’t announce itself to me publicly. Nothing in my life collapsed. Feeling tired all the time wasn’t bad; it was my baseline. Yet, focus began to take on the persona of irritation toward my work, myself, and the people around me. I no longer set out to tackle only the big things; small problems now carried more weight than they should have, and small mistakes by others began to irritate me. Life began to feel painful, even at times undesirable. Everything became such a big deal. I found that where I used to slam through walls, I began to make choices not out of intention, but out of relief. I became drawn to whatever would end the discomfort the fastest.

Being successful, I began to wonder, why did I feel at rock bottom? Being high in my profession, having relationships others would envy, having built the life I envisioned, something had to change, though I didn’t know how to give it a name. My choices began to become ill-guided, not from indifference, but from dullness. The part of me that once noticed nuance grew silent. Subtle distinctions in life, work, and people disappeared. I lost my sense of when effort was required and when time was the truer answer. I could still function, but I was compensating, now relying totally on force on everything where attention and inspiration once worked cleanly.

Then came denial, and the emotional cost that followed. Each time I overrode the yokes, big and small, that pulled me down, I taught myself not to listen. Signals that I used to welcome began to annoy me. They were inconveniences to my peace. Discomfort became something to suppress, to submit to silently rather than with understanding. Gradually, all trust eroded, not just in my body, mind, emotions, or energy, but in myself in general. A faint impatience began to settle in, yet flat, a sense that I was now pushing through life, all parts of it, still accomplishing, but rather than moving with it, things were no longer flowing.

As a result of shutting out the world and the world within my own head, my world narrowed. Limits began to change perspective. Everything became about getting through the day. Curiosity, my lifeblood, even began to fade. I knew something needed to be done, but that was the problem. I had everything I could ever want. Recovery from that seemed crazy and certainly ungratefully indulgent. Surprise began to have no place or excitement. My world was perfect. I was not in crisis, yet I was living as though I were. Survival mode replaced presence without my consent. Everyone around me felt it or felt the brunt of what I would not share.

I think the most dangerous part was how ordinary it all felt. Nothing told me to stop. Nothing told me to slow down. Nothing hinted at any type of collapse. Nothing told me I needed to stop bashing walls. No one told me I had a problem, or if they did, I didn’t hear. What I was doing, though, was operating below capacity, and I’d been doing it for way too long. I focused on my limitations to the point of obsession, at the expense of seriousness and gratitude about what I could control. There were limitations that I could not power through, I realized after too many years. And because I didn’t realize this earlier, all limitations, even challenges, began to operate out of the same intensity. Out of the blue, it hit me that if I couldn’t power through certain things that didn’t erase who I was or what I could become despite them. I realized that maybe those walls were there for a reason, that maybe I was meant to be something I didn’t consciously see myself as. The realization was slow and painful, but my life began to change. Centering took the place of warfare.

My limits took on a new light. They were never obstacles; they were misconceptions on my part. They were even guardians of who I was meant to be. The sad thing is, I had been deluded and deluded myself for a lifetime. I recognized the pundits of the super life were frauds. I began to respect those limits. At first, I didn’t respect limits dramatically or perfectly, but rather honestly, and, when I did, something softened inside me like the Grinch’s frozen heart. Efforts on things that were within my limits became cleaner. Decisions within my framework grew quieter and more precise. Life began to deepen again, rather than merely expanding. I began to do less because I stopped slamming into walls and instead spent my time doing more. That was the paradox. In fact, I did better at everything I did. The cost of refusing to stop at natural limitations had been the gradual loss of the very capacities that made my efforts meaningful in the first place. Limits and walls became not challenges to defeat, but invitations to stop long enough to acknowledge, honor, and preserve those things that did matter within the sphere of life I’d been given in which to live. Limits became no more than a beautiful river in my life, a life without a boat, that asked me to choose the path to the left or to the right when it told me in so many ways I could not cross but promised adventure no matter which direction I chose.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

LISTENING

By Clay Stafford

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I always believed that human glory and life’s meaning were found in the senses: what I saw, touched, felt, heard, smelled, and tasted as I sped down the passing lane of accomplishment. These things provided the richness of living, complementary to the mountainous regions of sentience, the arcs and trajectories of being, and the hills and valleys of experience, the satisfaction of the present moment, and the excitement of things to come. Moving through those elevations and absorbing the delight of each moment seemed attainable only through effort and discipline, verified by visible signs of progress. Passivity, I believed, would not allow fate to deepen. Nor would acceptance or routine. I was not born intentionally appreciating what surrounded me. It was up to me to seek it out. Without intention or constant effort, something in me dragged me downward, turning me negative, and closed my eyes to the beauty held even as close as a flower in my hand.

For me, work and sacrifice were never separate. I approached my work the same way I approached my love of conduct: as a builder, a creator, someone constructing what I envisioned and leaving nothing to chance, mitigating the risk of even a moment lived without purpose. Committed to experience and beauty and the love of spirit, I lived with the belief and what felt like proof that if I worked hard enough, planned carefully enough, and remained devoted to improvement, the more profound human aspects, such as spirituality, intellectual pleasure, and emotional fulfillment, would arrive on their own. I only needed to lay the tracks. I assumed understanding, timing, and wisdom would naturally follow once the visible work and confirmation to my senses were undeniable. What I did not realize was that the skill that mattered most, the one that would ultimately transform my existence and my relationships, was not something I could see, touch, feel, hear, smell, or taste. It was not visible at all. It belonged to the category of things I assumed would take care of themselves if I were disciplined enough to live an examined, well-lived reality.

Whether innate or shaped through observation as I grew and matured, I came to believe that vitality was shaped entirely by purposeful intention. When something failed to work, maybe a relationship, a decision, or a season of my lifestyle, I tried to fix it the only way I knew how: by adding more effort, more thinking, more explanation, more force, more control. Wasn’t it my responsibility to build an existence I could eventually look back on without regret, one I could reach the end of and say, well done? For me, clarity came from that assertion, from believing meaning could be pressed into place if I pushed hard enough and demanded transformation. It was unsettling to discover that my diligence, the very trait I trusted most, was often working against me.

At one of my lowest points, I realized that one’s lot was more than experience, sensation, and action. Viability, I found, communicates just as clearly when it is encountered quietly, indirectly, and without urgency. Being a fixer revealed its limits in moments that required no solution, situations that asked for no action, and questions that had no immediate answers. I flailed there. I didn’t know how to stand still. I wanted so much more from destiny than what I believed I had been given that I failed to notice what was already present. When this recognition arrived, it did so subtly, yet with quiet unease. The problems that continued to trouble me were not rooted in lack of effort or achievement. They stemmed from failure to listen to things that did not need to be, but were, without asking for my attention.

Hearing and choosing when not to attend was what I had missed. Discernment. Not paying attention for approval or instruction, but being attentive for boundaries, for signals, for the difference between what wanted to be rushed and what needed time. I had to hear the quiet truth that some things were not asking me to act, repair, or improve; they were asking me to stop interfering. And yet, I wasn’t taking heed.

To my surprise, taking into account itself became an act. It was not passive. It required restraint and patience. Concentrating asked me to tolerate uncertainty without rushing to resolve it. It asked me to leave unfinished things unfinished, to resist tidying them up or wrapping them up prematurely. Keeping my ears open meant trusting that clarity sometimes arrived only after I stopped demanding it.

At first, this felt unproductive. From the outside, monitoring resembled hesitation, pausing instead of advancing, waiting instead of fixing. When I stopped pushing, I felt lost. In doing nothing, I wondered what I was doing at all. There were fewer markers of progress, no surge of momentum, no thrill of accomplishment. Slowing down felt uncomfortable in a world and in my own world that rewarded decisiveness and speed. And yet, something began to change.

When I took note instead of forcing outcomes, the quality of my decisions shifted. My perceptions changed. I stopped shaping results that didn’t truly fit. I recognized when something was complete rather than refining it beyond necessity. I learned, often uncomfortably, that others did not always want solutions; they wanted to be heard. Silence, I discovered, could carry weight without being filled, and tuning in altered my understanding of doubt. Uncertainty became information rather than a shortcoming. Things were not broken; they were unresolved, and that distinction mattered. It gave me patience I had never practiced before.

I came to understand that the apparent inactivity of focusing was itself a form of action. It was not instinctive. Like any skill, it was built slowly through humility, repetition, and restraint. It sharpened not through effort, but by stepping back and allowing actuality to reveal itself without interruption. Once perceived, it grew. It became the foundation beneath every visible skill, every tangible accomplishment. Everything I did depended on this quiet test for its truest execution.

The quietness began to permeate my continuation. I found myself longing for it. No amount of effort could replace it. No amount of planning could override it. Without lending an ear, progress dissolved into noise. A new reality had come. And in returning to the full circle, I discovered something unexpected: even stillness had direction. I had not underestimated listening because I considered it unimportant. I underestimated it because it was quiet.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

THE CHAIR IS STILL THERE

By Clay Stafford

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Mostly working from home for the majority of my life, there was no boss to meet, no comptroller checking my clock-in for work, no meetings I had to be on time for, only me, waking up and stretching in bed, thinking of how I envisioned my day to play out.

Most days were and are filled with excitement. I knew what I was going to do. I loved what I did. I was blessed to be able to do it. Most mornings were filled with ambition and excitement, so I couldn’t wait to get to work and get started. But there were those dreaded mornings when I awoke, stared at the ceiling, and realized there was no fuel in the creative engine for the day. On those mornings, there was no urgency to get out of bed, no spark inspiring me to begin. There wasn’t even resistance. In the dim light of the morning sun coming through the cracks of the closed plantation shutters, there was simply a hollow quiet where momentum typically was and should have been. Those moments felt empty, nothing resembling the welcomed heaviness of life, just a distant void, as though everything that normally mattered had somehow, during the night while I was dreaming, slipped down the hallway to another bedroom and closed the door, sometimes even locking it behind it, climbing into the bed and pulling the covers over its head.

Those were days that felt like failures even before they began, and because I predetermined them while lying in bed, they usually turned out as I expected. I used to think I could only show up for my life when my inner world was in agreement, when want and purpose matched, when I knew why I was doing something, and when the effort made sense. I could only do things when I felt like it or when the meaning was clear. When that alignment was absent, I assumed the day was already lost and a wasted day of failure lay ahead. I felt it in my heart and even in my bones. I hadn’t yet learned that the real discipline of my life wasn’t built on feeling ready, but on returning.

It wasn’t until later in my life, when maybe maturity or practice, or even serendipitous events, proved me wrong, that I realized these mornings were simply a different kind of threshold, their own unique entry into a day that, at first glance, felt formless and uninspired. Somewhere along the way, I learned that discipline, what I needed to create the perfect day, was less about preplanning, force, or even intention, but more about presence.

I don’t know when my thinking started to shift. I certainly didn’t make it happen. I didn’t will it. It certainly wasn’t some trite self-help or productivity hack. It didn’t even arrive with some revelation. It came oddly and unplanned, as a habit. Whether I had the vision for the day or not, I got my coffee as usual, set up my desk, and sat down in my chair to work, even when I didn’t know what I wanted to work on or, if I did, even when I wasn’t inspired. Motivation didn’t earn me a spot at my desk. Routine did. On those days, I kept the bar low. I didn’t promise much to those hours except the assurance to my computer that I’ll be close by if needed. No plans were negotiated, no meaning defined, and rarely was any enthusiasm offered to the Muse as tribute. Sometimes on those days, I thought my purpose in life was to drink a cup of coffee, watch my birdfeeder, and ponder, in the world of evolution, what crazy lizard found itself jumping out of a tree and realizing it could fly, thus creating a new species of birds. In other words, with no plans or inspiration, I sat there because I didn’t know what else to do.

It surprised me at some point how little was required to sit there. It was freeing. Even on those hollow mornings, the chair was still there, waiting. I didn’t need conviction. I didn’t need direction. I didn’t need to believe that anything I was doing mattered. I only needed not to leave. I needed to sit with whatever drifted through my mind. The common thread behind it all was my chair, on productive days and on days of nothing. It was always sitting there, consistent, no matter where my head was. So, I returned to it, some days with more fervor than others, but always with a refusal to hand over control to the weather outside (I write outside on my porch) or even the weather, no matter how calm or turbulent, going on inside of me.

Those neutral days of nothingness were not heroic. They were days that neither lifted nor dragged, days that offered no motivational or dramatic reason or inspiration to move forward, but at the same time, no compelling reason not to be there. It seemed on those days that the world asked nothing of me other than attendance in that chair, across the lawn from the birdfeeder, pondering the processes of the past few million years.

When I think back on my own evolution now, what strikes me is not how much time I wasted sitting there, but rather how honest those hours were. Out of boredom, I did begin to tinker, but without the need or motivation to impress, accelerate, or aim beyond the moment, I moved straight to the essentials as they popped into my head. It was all rather casual. There was no adornment, no performance, no word count, no chasing of superiority. Just small, impulsive, inner-driven activities, whether rain or shine, just some sort of private continuity with days more productive, but with no invisible audience or ego applauding, but at the same time nothing left undone. When inspired, sitting in the chair, I did what I felt inspired to do, letting direction come from the nothingness.

Over time, something shifted. Those neutral (I wouldn’t call them wasted) days, those unremarkable returns to the chair each morning, began to alter the way I understood myself in the same way that I could envision lizards growing wings millions of years ago. I don’t think I ever patted myself on my back for my consistency of sitting in a chair (that hardly seems a heroic act), but I did begin to trust it as an inkling of something I couldn’t put my finger on began to take form in my consciousness, in my being. Showing up and sitting down, I began to sense that I did not need to feel aligned with my work or even with myself to remain connected. Just drink coffee and watch the birds, and occasionally look at my computer screen. I didn’t need the weather, inside or out, to give me permission. Before I stepped into the day, I needed to go to my chair and sit. And, surprise to me, somewhere along the way, my fingers would find their way to the keyboard, and I would start to type. Somewhere by the end of the day, I would pause and look back on all that I had accomplished, even though I had had no preplanned direction.

Trust accumulated in ways I couldn’t have articulated then, but it did soften the drama around the difficulty of being aimless. It quieted the argument between desire and duty. It reframed commitment as identity rather than effort. I began to see that most of what endures in life is built not on bursts of certainty but on the steady, unimpressive, evolutionary cadence of return.

The curious, but also understandable, thing is that the work of my life didn’t constantly improve in those days, but my relationship with my work, and even myself, did. Sitting down in my chair became less conditional, less dependent on mood or inspiration, or the unpredictable tides of self-belief or raw motivation. Sitting down in my chair became, instead, something like a morning welcome, a companionship, coming with the predictability and comfort of knowing that the sun will rise each day and I will sit: steady, imperfect, patient.

Looking back, I never found the dramatic clarity I once believed I needed to move forward. I saw something quieter. I discovered that life continues, like birds in flight, even when eagerness does not. I found that meaning doesn’t always come hand in hand with willingness. I discovered that neutrality is fertile in its own way. We don’t need a parade; we only need a chair.

I once thought that discipline was a loud, cinematic declaration, something founded in great ambition or proven with relentless, knock-the-walls-down drive, but the truth, for me, instead lived in a place outside on the back porch, an ordinary chair, waiting without fanfare, and asking for nothing other than my presence. “Come as you are,” it called. “If nothing else,” it said in its Southern way, “just sit a spell.”

Perhaps the unexpected lesson for me is this: the parts of life that endure are not always those born from passion, certainty, or predetermination while lying in the bed in the morning and staring at the ceiling with the morning light coming in through the shutters, but instead it is from the steady, unremarkable decision to get my coffee, in my routine, and sit in my chair long enough for meaning to find its way back. The chair is always waiting.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

This Crazy Writing Life: When Publishing Throws You A Curve Ball—Again—And The Scammers Circle Above

By Steven Womack

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We plan; God laughs.

In last month’s episode of This Crazy Writing Life, I told you the long, epic saga of a novel that my writing partner, Wayne McDaniel, and I wrote nearly a decade ago; a book called Pearson Place. The novel is based on/inspired by a true-life fact: Pearson Place is real.

Located in Queens, it’s a four-story warehouse that takes up an entire city block. This massive warehouse in the middle of one of Queens’s most industrial areas is the repository of every piece of evidence collected in every investigation of every crime by the New York City Police Department going back decades.

The stuff in there gobsmacks the imagination. Every illegal drug ever synthesized or grown; every weapon you could ever imagine using in a crime, ranging from the most modern high-tech anti-tank weapons to medieval maces and lances… Stolen electronics, illegal pornography. High profile crimes like evidence from the Central Park Jogger case. If it’s evidence associated with a crime, it wound up in Pearson Place.

In 1992, Donald Trump’s then-girlfriend Marla Maples’s publicist stole over two hundred pairs of Marla’s very expensive heels and had sex with them. He was charged with theft, found guilty, and his conviction overturned in 1994. He was retried and found guilty again in 1999. Needless to say, Marla—by then Mrs. Donald Trump—didn’t wanted the abused shoes back and they’re still in an evidence locker at Pearson Place. Wayne’s seen them and described them as icky.

Or as Wayne referred to them in the manuscript to Pearson Place: Mrs. Trump’s Humped Pumps…

Anyway, Pearson Place is the story of a single mother who’s an NYPD cop with a special needs toddler. She’s broke, desperate, looking for any way to make an extra buck. She takes on extra shifts guarding Pearson Place. Then she discovers she’s terminally ill. Even more desperate now to leave a legacy for her kid, she decides to pull off the heist of the century by ripping off the NYPD warehouse she’s supposed to be guarding.

Chaos ensues…

Last month, I described how after years of passes, rejections, and radio silence in response to our queries, we found an editor at an established prestigious house who loved the book and wanted to buy it. Everything’s done by committee, though, and there was one holdout on the acquisition team. She tried everything, including having Wayne and me do a rewrite, before finally giving up.

This took just over a year to resolve itself.

Frustrated beyond belief, Wayne and I decided to serialize the novel on Substack. We broke the manuscript up into digestible hunks, created a Substack account, and were writing supplemental material to go with it.

Then, out of nowhere (as happens so often in publishing), I got an email from a very successful writer and close friend whom I’ve known for decades, literally since she published her first novel in 1987. She read my column, said the book sounded interesting. Were we sure we wanted to go the Substack route?

It may be the only route left, I answered.

Let me talk to my editor, she said. Maybe she’ll take a look at it.

A couple of days later, an email from my friend’s editor landed in my inbox. She would love to read Pearson Place. Send it on.

So the Substack project is, for the time being, on hold.  I’ve been in this business too long to be anything but cautiously hopeful. But this book’s going to see the light of day, one way or another, even if—as Major Kong said in Dr. Strangelove—it harelips everybody on Bear Creek.

There are two publishing life lessons to be taken away here: 1) in publishing, you never know when the next curve ball’s gonna come at you, and sometimes it’s a good curveball; and 2) more than anything else, publishing is a people business.

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Speaking of people, there’s some real bad guys out there these days. Take Sherry J. Valentine, for instance. She sent me the following email on January 27th:

Hi Steven,

Blood Plot is deliciously dangerous, the kind of thriller that blurs the line between ambition and obsession until the distinction disappears entirely.

The premise alone is irresistible: a critically praised novelist no one reads decides to give audiences exactly what they crave, only to discover that authenticity has a terrifying cost. Watching Michael Schiftmann cross from observation into participation, and then into addiction, creates a chilling psychological descent that feels both satirical and deeply unsettling. It’s smart, twisted, and disturbingly plausible.

At Book and Banter Book Club, our readers are drawn to suspense that interrogates creativity, morality, and fame, stories that ask uncomfortable questions about what success demands and how far someone might go to achieve it. Blood Plot is exactly the kind of novel that sparks intense discussion, ethical debate, and “just one more chapter” nights.

We’d love to feature Blood Plot as an upcoming spotlight read, purchasing copies for our members and centering a full month of conversation around its themes and characters. A spotlight feature includes:

• A dedicated month-long focus, exploring Michael’s transformation, the cost of ambition, and the novel’s sharp commentary on the publishing world
• Organic reader buzz, with reactions, quotes, and insights shared across our club discussions and social spaces
• Author discovery, introducing readers to your broader body of work and award-winning career

Book and Banter exists to turn bold thrillers into shared experiences, stories readers don’t just finish, but dissect, debate, and recommend.

If you’re open to collaborating, we’d love to talk about bringing Blood Plot to our readers and giving it the thoughtful spotlight it deserves.

Warm regards,
Book and Banter Book Club

Now what, you might ask, is so objectionable about such a flattering email and an offer to help promote a book that, God knows, could use every little bit of help it can get?

Well, friends, let me tell you…

It’s a scam, a complete AI-generated con designed to lure unsuspecting, desperate-for-attention writers (which includes all of us) into a scheme to separate us from as much cash as possible. Once you’ve been around a while and have found enough of these missives in your inbox (I get them several times a week), you begin to develop your very own Spidey sense. The flattering text about my novel is clearly AI-generated. No one really writes like that, even if they’re real and really do love your stuff. There’s something about it that’s too slick, like a TV preacher or something.

And the emails are always from some generic mass-market server. In Ms. Valentine’s case, the incoming came from a Gmail box.

To make this even slicker and more insidious, there actually is an organization of readers and book clubs that share and discuss their favorite reads. Only it’s not the Book and Banter Book Club; it’s the Books and Banter Book Club.

Pretty clever, huh? Almost got that one past me.

A couple of Google searches revealed all this. Plus, I searched for Sherry J. Valentine and while there are lots of Sherry J. Valentines out there, not one of them had any association with the fake Book and Banter Book Club or the real Books and Banter Book Club. There’s also no mention of her on the real book club’s website.

So what’s the takeaway here? As I mentioned in the very first episode of This Crazy Writing Life nearly two years ago, writers have been prey for centuries. In our desperate longing for validation, affirmation, and the inevitable fame and fortune we all deserve, we’re often blind to those whose motives may not be as noble as ours. From the Famous Writers School of the Sixties and Seventies to the contemporary companies who will “publish” your novel and distribute it for a mere thirty-five grand, writers are seen by many as sheep to be sheared.

How do we protect ourselves? As Matty Walker said in Larry Kasdan’s magnificent Body Heat: Knowledge is power. Read the trades, scour the websites, especially SFWA’s fabulous website Writer Beware. It highlights specific scammers and con artists, exposing them by name.

And always remember the adage that’s as true in life as well as publishing: if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. A little dose of cynicism never hurt anybody.

That’s enough for now. As always, thanks for playing along. See you next month.

Oh, and Ms. Valentine? Just for S&Gs, I answered her email.

So far, crickets…

MAKING IT BEFORE IT HAS A NAME

By Clay Stafford

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There were periods when I began something simply out of interest, long before I understood why, and, oddly, the not-knowing at times unsettled me more than the effort itself. I am, by nature, a planner and a builder, and to be the best at that, one needs to know from the start what they are constructing. It’s a little irresponsible to build a skyscraper without planning and realize, too late, that you didn’t put the right foundation under the building. The longer I lived, the more I noticed a pattern that didn’t quite make sense to me: some of the most authentic things in my life began before they could be explained, and naming them too early seemed to shrink what they were trying to become, as if definition became a filter or a cell. I didn’t have that concept at the time, but the truth of it lingered as something I wouldn’t understand for years, something that existed long before I found the words to recognize it. I began to realize that some of the most important things in my life only revealed their meaning after I was already living them.

I can think of decisions, relationships, detours, and changes I made in my life that began without language, without an expressed idea, what a writer might call a “thesis statement.” Without a plan, I found myself moving toward people, places, projects, and experiences that couldn’t really be justified. Beginnings were always small, sometimes even unnoticed, like quiet shifts that pointed me away from what was familiar to something new and unknown without offering any clarity or expectations of what might come next. As it expanded into my life, my days, my consciousness, the absence of explanation began to feel like a kind of unnameable negligence, as though I owed myself, if not the world, some sort of rationale before I took the next step. The interesting thing about life, though, and especially adventure, is that nothing meaningful arrives with instructions.

Some beginnings took the form of restlessness, sometimes bordering on boredom. Others came from a pull I couldn’t seem to ignore. I didn’t think or plan my way into those moments as much as I moved my way into them by some magnetic, yet unnamed, attraction. Whatever meaning they carried waited there and didn’t announce itself at the start, like a wrapped birthday present asking to be eagerly opened with childhood innocence, but only when the birthday came. Meaning surfaced only after the momentum of action, movement, or interest, unexplained, but happening, after I gave up wanting certainty that my time or emotions were not wasted. I wanted assurance before I pulled the paper away from the birthday box, wanted to see what was inside before I undid the ribbon.

For much of my life, I resisted this uncertain stage. Maybe it was the way I was raised as a child, but it always felt safer to have clarity before action, certainty before motion. It was inherent in me to want to know the ending, what it meant, whether it was safe, and how I could justify myself if anyone should ask. Without clarity and the words, always the words, which may be why I am a writer, I always felt exposed, awkward in a way that left me sometimes rehearsing the answer, the justification, before I had completely made the choice, even as I was already traveling down an unknown path through a forest dappled with light, leaves flickering with moving brightness, the smell of wet earth rising, without the faintest hint of what it boded.

Being someone who plays chess rather than checkers, beginning something, anything, without clarity required a different posture than I was used to. Those moments asked that I enter them without strategy, even without ambition, but only presence. Being foreign to me, I didn’t have a name for what was happening then other than those moments, things, people, or ideas embraced something that kept me returning to those half-formed beginnings, unidentifiable hopes, and curious opportunities, and that returning to them by some magnetic, unexplainable pull mattered even, at times, if none of it made any sense.

In the worlds I circled, I looked to efficiency and expediency, even in relationships, and from the outside, this way of moving probably looked highly inefficient. In those unnamed spaces, false starts, reversals, and in-between states that didn’t add up clouded the clarity. I collected experiences that didn’t seem connected, yet over time, they began to mark the edges of something that appeared to form out of the mist. They revealed what stayed and what fell away. They traced a shape I did not realize I had been drawing, yet had been seemingly unconsciously engineering from the start.

It was later in life, after I had been married and even after I had a son, that I stopped using the phrases “happy accidents” and “bumbling through life.” Something began to shift when I stopped asking these innocuous beginnings to declare themselves too early. I let them happen. I felt less urgency to start justifying each step. I think part of it was because I had put myself into a world that didn’t require an explanation, a happy place of unconditional love and acceptance, something that came with marrying the right person. Because of this foundation, I didn’t rush decisions simply to escape uncertainty. I let things “percolate,” as my son coined, when he was near an adult. I noticed the quiet gravity of what I kept returning to when those things called to me from the fog, and how nothing real in those voices demanded immediate clarity or even a call back from me in return. Understanding, when it came at all, arrived later, subtle, without fanfare, and I began to let it happen in its own natural way.

The real tension wasn’t in not knowing; it was in the impulse to decide too quickly what something was supposed to be. I saw clearly that each time I started something that seemed to fall into my lap with questions, to name it, to give it a beginning point before it lived, shrank it to match my description of it, rather than allowing it to slowly manifest itself, like the bloom of a flower, into its own possibilities, shape, form, and even my relationship with or appreciation of it. Slowly, through life practice and observation, I learned to wait a little longer. An egg is an egg, but if you wait, to one’s ultimate surprise, a chick may emerge. “Wait a little longer” became my mantra. I needed to allow experience to accumulate before drawing conclusions or judging. Even without my “input,” refinement happened, though it may not have been there in the start, as the Old Me would have desired. In contrast, when meaning did arrive, it arrived as something real, something that could be refined, the “happy accident” seeming predestined on its own. That is how the subconscious works. It is a land hidden, but a calculating world in its own right.

Many of the meaningful shifts in my life didn’t arrive as predetermined or mapped plans. I didn’t select them from a menu of options or make deliberate choices. They appeared first at the periphery while I was occupied with living and paying attention, and they continued even when I couldn’t articulate what they were, what I was feeling, or the purpose or endpoint. I guess what I got out of all this, so many years later, is that life isn’t always the execution of a strategy. Sometimes it is the slow uncovering of one. Venturing into the unknown before I understood the “meaning of it all” wasn’t carelessness or irresponsibility. It was a way, and continues to be a way, of staying open long enough for meaning to emerge on its own through movement and unveiling rather than planning and anticipation. Some of the truest parts of my life found their names only after I let them exist as long as needed without one, and I suspect that might be the only way I would have ever recognized them at all.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

WORKING WITHOUT AN ECHO

By Clay Stafford

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There are stretches when work and life carry on, yet the world goes strangely muffled, and I’m left facing a reflection I don’t repetitively acknowledge. The first time I became aware of this was after years of working in the collaborative arts of television, film, and theater, when, without those lively moments, without the noise, silence itself became its own uncanny yet welcoming mirror. To this day, the likeness I see unnerves me.

The experience I’m thinking of wasn’t dramatic. Nothing collapsed. Nothing extraordinary happened. I changed where I wrote. I was living in Los Angeles then, surrounded by the hum of other people’s stories. That was all. I was young. I switched employment and went from the noise of collaborative rooms to the hush of a rented space on my own. Nothing refashioned in my profession except the location and the environment. I kept doing what I promised, tending the responsibilities I chose, still delivering work, but without the usual affirmations. Where daily life had once been bustling, there were now no replies in hallways, no nods in breakrooms, no signs in studios that anything I was offering was reaching beyond my own effort. In the absence of feedback, I learned that the material I was writing and the life I was living were now without endorsement, and the meaning of things changed when nothing echoed back.

Without response, the work felt different beneath my hands. I still had the discipline to continue, but without reflection or resonance, I began to feel the dull ache of questions rising from somewhere older than ambition, closer to the ribcage: What is this for? Does any of this matter? Had I mistaken movement or activity for direction? It surprised me how much the small, ordinary reassurances had once steadied me. A single thank-you, a simple hurrah, being noticed in passing, none of it had seemed important at the time, but when it disappeared, I felt the floor shift a little. I realized how soundlessly I had leaned upon them.

What steadied me again wasn’t a surge of motivation or a sudden breakthrough. It was a kind of returning, almost like walking back to the trailhead after getting lost. I noticed that the reasons I began hadn’t dissolved just because no one was nodding along. The values underneath the effort remained, unchanged and unmoved. The silence hadn’t drained them of meaning; it had only stripped away the applause I didn’t know I’d been listening for.

Working without affirmation brought me face to face with a question I hadn’t needed to ask before: did the work matter only when it was witnessed, or did it matter even here, in secret, when there was no audience to gather the story? It was an uncomfortable distinction. There was no performance in that space, no cleverness, just me and the truth of what I cared about.

Staying with the work in that lonely townhouse on Bedford Drive, where jacaranda petals stuck to the windshield, wasn’t about mettle. It wasn’t about proving anything, not even to myself. It felt smaller than that, more silent. I continued because continuing felt more honest than stopping. The pull didn’t come from momentum or reward; it came from alignment, as if turning away would have been a small betrayal of something I couldn’t name.

In that hush, something shifted. It wasn’t confidence or inspiration. It was a steadier posture, days spent without waiting for an echo, returning without asking to be met halfway. There was nothing heroic or cinematic about it. I certainly didn’t feel that. I simply stayed.

Affirmation did come back eventually, and the validity of the choice I had made did come, though in indirect ways I couldn’t have predicted. By then, the ground beneath the work had already changed. It no longer asked to be seen to matter. The meaning of what I did through my work had moved inward, even to a place where applause, even though it later came, couldn’t reach it.

I once believed that meaning required an audience. Now I suspect that the audience only revealed what was true long before anyone clapped. When the echo disappeared, and I kept going anyway, the work stopped asking who was watching and started quietly telling me who I was. It was from there that I became.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

THE WORLD GOT WIDER

By Clay Stafford

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For a long time, I believed that anything worth pursuing should come with a clear signal, some sign, momentum, or external confirmation that I was moving in the right direction. I think I was waiting for the circus to come to town. Looking for that exterior confirmation, though, quietly narrowed my world without me even noticing.

I didn’t really understand this belief, this idea that I was essentially performing for others. I didn’t think about it. It wasn’t something I put into words. It just showed up, thoughtlessly, like the morning sun. Unlike the mark of a new day, however, this subconscious belief or need for validation manifested as hesitation, maybe doubt. When no one clapped, no one replied to my desperate phone calls, letters, or emails, or no one offered a word of encouragement or support, I found I slowed down. I started to wait. “Give me a sign,” my needy heart exclaimed. I started second-guessing my map. I equated uncertainty with fear, that I was about to make a mistake.

I don’t know when this thinking began; it may have started in childhood, perhaps reflecting a need for parental approval in a conditionally loved world. The shame is that it shaped my life more than I realized. It made me cautious, even timid, in moments that required courage. Wherever it began and however it grew, this subconscious belief that I needed that validation trained me to seek approval from others rather than to seek direction from within. I couldn’t help but think that when progress was slow, and especially when it stalled, it was proof that I was off track. When I felt something mattered, but yet it demanded so much unapplauded effort, I wondered if I wasn’t forcing something that should not be rather than earning something that should not have to be affirmed.

Somewhere along the way, it hit me. Why? Maturity? God-given insight? Not sure. I know nothing external changed. There were no circus clowns. No breakthrough arrived. But inside me, the moment that my life began to change, the moment that I began to change, was a shift in the limiting belief itself.

Somewhere in my Los Angeles days, I began to notice that the work that mattered most, not only to me, but to others, oddly rarely announced itself. In its inception, in its call to adventure, it made no promises. I didn’t have to wait for the green light to proceed. I didn’t need any person in power to give me some grand confirmation that I had finally found the path. Instead, my life and work began to show up, not with fireworks, but in small, unglamorous ways.

I found I was passionately involved in my work and life when previously I would have told myself to quit. Problems or roadblocks? Instead of avoiding or dismissing them and walking away, I found I started returning to them day after day, living and loving life regardless of who, if anyone, ever noticed. The silence, the fact that no one was even noticing, stopped coming across to me as a warning. The silence became the mental space where my life and work began to live and grow. And from the silence, to my surprise, others began to notice.

“Reassurance” is the key word. I no longer needed it. And when I began to accept this, to believe and live it, subtly, my attention changed. Without needing approval, I began to notice the quiet pull toward specific ideas or desires that were intrinsically my own, not someone else’s to validate. Life started at that moment to be an adventure, even if it was nothing more than showing up, even when nothing was resolved. It didn’t matter. I was living me. I accepted that sometimes understanding comes only after effort, not before. Looking back, I realized that my strongest decisions, the ones that actually changed and transformed my life, were rarely made in moments of confidence. They were made in moments of scared commitment.

With regret, but also with thankfulness for the experience, I realized how much life-energy and opportunity I had wasted, misreading what were, in fact, neutral conditions and neutral exterior feedback. No response didn’t mean that anyone was rejecting me. Resistance didn’t mean I was going in the wrong direction. Slow progress didn’t mean I was a failure or ill-equipped.

Letting go of the belief that I didn’t need external validation for how I wanted to live my life didn’t erase doubt. Don’t get the wrong impression. But what it did was to strip doubt of its authority. Uncertainty stopped being a verdict and became something I could walk alongside. I could live in the present, not the past or the future, and though it might feel uncomfortable to take risks others dared not, doubt was no longer in charge. Living the life I wanted to live became the mantra.

Letting go of that belief, that need for affirmation, didn’t suddenly make my progress in the world easier, but it did make it wider. Possibilities that had always been there came into view, and I was able to accept them without any need for anyone else’s approval. These possibilities that I dared not dream of didn’t change. They were there all the time. I simply stopped requiring permission to see them. Or honor them. Or rather, I realized the only permission I needed to live the life of my dreams on my own terms was mine.

I realized the world doesn’t widen because circumstances change. It widened when I stopped asking permission to dream big dreams. I wasn’t walking with the consent or acceptance of others anymore. I was walking with uncertainty, and noticing I still belonged, not to the whims of others, but to myself. I began writing my life, telling the story I knew should be told, even when I walked alone.

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Clay Stafford is a bestselling writer, filmmaker, and founder of the Killer Nashville International Writers’ Conference, Killer Nashville Magazine, and the Killer Nashville University streaming service. Subscribe to his newsletter at https://claystafford.com/.

Flying Solo: On Finding Success As a Writer Without the Help of an Agent

By Anna Scotti

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When a writer lets slip that there's a novel in the works—or a story, or a collection of stories—the first thing people want to know is whether you have an agent. And from there, we writers start to dream. 

Agents do all the hard work of submitting material. They hook you up with advances, royalties, movie deals, foreign rights, video game rights, maybe a TV or streaming deal. Along with their first cousin, the book publicist, agents are the key to success, fame, and fortune. Right?

One of the biggest book deals on record is Michelle and Barack Obama's mega-deal with Penguin - 65 million bucks for four books. Okay, you say, but that's a former president and a first lady. Let's be pragmatic. What can we, as mystery writers, expect?  Well, Lisa Scottoline has a net worth upwards of 25 million dollars following a fat deal with Grand Central a couple of years back. Dean Koontz is worth 150 million, and James Patterson is halfway to a billion, having landed what is arguably the most lucrative multi-book deal in history. These deals were brokered by agents. But we're being pragmatic, remember, so you might expect your first book deal to net you well less than a million bucks. Fifty grand sounds about right. Not enough for a condo in Hollywood, but more than enough for a low-end beemer with cash left over for gas. Sure, fifty grand.

 Well, no.

 The average traditionally-published mystery novel nets its author five to ten thousand dollars. And that's of the books that find traditional publishers, which is a slim percentage of the books that are actually completed and shopped around. And that percentage is itself a slim fraction of the books that are begun, tapped out on laptops before school or after work, dreamed up over lattes in coffee houses and hashed out in writers' groups, paragraph by sweaty paragraph. It's hard to write a book. It's really hard to finish, edit, revise, and polish a book. And it's near impossible to land an agent.

Sure, writers do find agents. Depending upon the source you consult, there are between 300 and 1000 agents currently active in the United States. That's maybe six to twenty per state - not a lot. Each agent has 20, maybe thirty, writers currently signed to their roster, so they are able to be extremely selective about whom they sign. Agents exist because it's extremely difficult to get your work in front of major publishers without one. But it's also extremely difficult to get your work in front of an agent to begin with! Conferences definitely help—quite a few writers have found representation after meeting an agent at Killer Nashville, for example, or at various "pitch conferences."  Networking and persistence help, too. But there are hundreds of articles available about how to find an agent, and most of them are accurate, realistic…and discouraging. It's like a game of musical chairs where instead of one person getting left out, everybody but one person gets left out. Somebody is going to catch that agent's eye—but this time around, it might not be you.

So what about getting your work in front of publishers without an agent? Is it possible? Absolutely! In fact, I can tell you exactly how to get your work seen by Gina Centello at Random House, or Ben Sevier at Grand Central. It's simple—just invent a time machine, go back several decades, and get born into their families. Or save their dog from getting run over and create a life-long debt, something along those lines. But what if your scientific and metaphysical skills are not as strong as your mystery-writing prowess?  You will probably not be publishing your first book with Harper Collins, but it is entirely possible to land a contract with a reputable house. 

The first step is to be realistic. You may end up as big as Lisa Scottoline or James Patterson someday, but you are not there yet. You may end up sipping Stellas at the White Horse Tavern with Gina or Ben someday, but you're not there yet. You've got a book, and it's good. It's been polished to high shine, and you want to see it between two covers. You've made the decision to seek a traditional publishing house, rather than to self-publish, or you wouldn't be reading this craft article. And here's the good news—a trade paperback published by a reputable indie or a university press is eligible for all of the same awards, honors, prizes and reviews as a hardcover book published with a lot of hoopla by any of the Big Five. 

Really?

Really. The most prestigious honor in the mystery world is probably the Edgar Allan Poe Award, familiarly known as the Edgar, and you can submit your own book to the Mystery Writers of America! Longing for an Anthony Award, or perhaps a Claymore? You don't need the publisher or an agent for that—you can submit your own work. You can even submit your own book for the Pulitzer Prize! Books released by university presses and small independent publishing houses—"indies"—routinely nab prizes, awards, honors and the press that leads to sales and builds a writer's reputation. 

But it's not always easy to get your book in front of those smaller, less prestigious publishing houses, either. They can be just as selective as Simon & Schuster or MacMillan. Maybe, under some circumstances, even more so. The big dogs can trust that a book by a bestselling author will move copies, even if it's not particularly riveting or well-reviewed. A book released by a brave little indie relies on word of mouth, professional reviews—usually in small publications and regional newspapers—and reader reviews on Goodreads and Amazon to spark interest and rack up sales. True, an indie house doesn't need to move 10 to 25 thousand copies to avoid Monday-morning regrets. A thousand copies may be considered a success, indeed—and may turn a tidy profit for the house. But because it's expensive to acquire, edit, copy edit, design, register, and distribute a book, small houses have to be careful; they can't afford a lot of misfires.

So as you prepare your novel or collection to make its way into the world, be meticulous. There are a million free sources at your fingertips to show you how to format your manuscript, but the basics are pretty simple. Use a 12-point serif font (Times New Roman will never let you down).  Double space and use one-inch margins. Paginate.  Put your name, address, phone, email and website addy (if any) on page one. Read any special instructions the publisher may have noted on their website. Then proofread, edit, copyedit, spell check, set the manuscript aside for two weeks, and go back and do it again. 

Many publishing houses read year-round. Others have reading periods—just check their websites. But don't be too quick to go over the transom or through the portal. I've had more than a few editors respond to an email letting them know I'm regularly published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. That credit opens doors in the mystery world. Even if they then ask you to submit through their portal, they may remember your name or keep an eye out for the manuscript. If you don't have a significant, impressive credit in the genre in which you are submitting, don't bother with the personal email. But if you do—a book previously published by a traditional publisher, stories in prestigious markets like EQMM or Alfred Hitchcock, or a well-known prize on your CV—send a brief, friendly email and ask for "permission" to send the manuscript. If you're directed to the plebian portal everyone has to use, nothing's lost. But you might get that much-coveted "please send your manuscript to my attention" email!

Competitions are another way to get your book read by a publishing house. There are a kazillion contests out there, some legitimate, and some not. The good news is, it's pretty easy to tell the difference between the two. First, consider the sponsor. Most book competitions are sponsored by small publishing houses, so check the site. Does it look attractive and well-maintained? Are winners from previous years listed? Google a few of them. Are their winning books in print? How do they look? Where can readers obtain the books? Distribution is the bugaboo of indie publishing—love it or not, many readers want to purchase their books online at Amazon or Barnes & Noble. If your book is available only through the publisher's site, is it easy to use? Actually log on and look. All the self-promotion in the world won't help your thriller if the publisher makes it hard to find or hard to buy—and some, inexplicably, do. 

Most competitions charge an entry fee, and that really seems to bother some writers, but the fact is that entry fees help small presses pay the cost of publishing and distributing their winning manuscripts. The same is true of contests that run without a book contract attached.  You may get a juicy credit for your resume, a banquet, a plaque, a sticker for your book cover, or even a cash prize, and the sponsors use entry fees to pay for those goodies. However, if you are truly hard up, there is often a fee waiver available—if you don't see one offered, ask. 

If you do place a book with a small publisher, whether through a contest or simply through open submissions, you may need to do a significant amount of marketing and publicity yourself. That sounds daunting, but it's not, really. You'll make a press kit of digital ARCs (advanced reading copies), a bio, a synopsis, and other materials the publisher will provide - things like an ISBN number, a link to pre-purchase, and some kind of announcement on the publisher's site and social media. Where will you send this press kit?  Everywhere you can think of, from local and regional newspapers, to magazines that publish reviews, to your alumni association and neighborhood groups, and to local bookstores and libraries. There are a lot of resources available that will show you ways to promote your own book, and if you have a good publisher, they will welcome your efforts and do all possible to help you. 

What about short stories? Even well-known writers usually submit their own work to magazines and anthologies. There simply isn't enough of a cut available to interest an agent (though an agent may perform this service as a courtesy to a big-name writer on their roster). The top magazines in our field—Ellery Queen, Alfred Hitchcock, The Strand, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, and Black Cat Weekly, all pay—and all accept submissions without a "reading fee." And don't forget big-money fiction markets like The New Yorker and The Atlantic. Publishing in one of those can kickstart a career. It's a long shot, sure—but submitting to these and others of their ilk is free, and miracles do happen. (Really! Your girl here had her first New Yorker poem pulled out of the slush pile nearly ten years ago and has published five times with them since.) 

Literary journals are great in one regard—not so hot in another. They tend to be beautifully produced, carefully edited, and packed with notable work. Whether in paper copy or online, you'll be proud to show off your work in a lit journal. However, their circulation rates are generally low. Further, a few literary prizes are open only to work that has received payment from the publisher. That's why some markets offer a token payment. For example, if you place a story with The Saturday Evening Post's "New Fiction Fridays" you'll receive a check for twenty-five bucks. Why bother, you ask?  Because The Post produces your story beautifully, it's accessible online without a paywall, and the magazine is widely recognized and well-respected. Publishing in the Post online is a reputation-builder, not a money-maker. And it may give you a step up into the hard-copy magazine, which pays significantly more. Plus, that token payment will allow you entree to contests that would not otherwise be open to you. Less commercial journals have smaller circulations than The Post, but their stories make their way to various contents and "best of,"s too. One of my favorites of my own stories, What Anyone Would Think, was published in The New Guard Literary Review and made barely a ripple in the pond—but it is the centerpiece of a collection that was a finalist for the Claymore Prize, and is currently under consideration by several publishers—and agents!

That's right, I'm presently un-agented! Sure, I'd like to find someone great to handle my next book, but I can't say I regret flying solo for the collection from Down&Out Books in June, It's Not Even Past. Working closely with the publisher on layout, book cover copy, cover design, editing and copyediting, and publicity has been an incredible learning experience; I know how to get a book into the hands of reviewers, how to post social media announcements strategically, and how to set up cover reveals, interviews, guest spots on blogs, readings, and signings. Being sans agent has never held me back. It's Not Even Past is a compilation of "librarian on the run" stories from Ellery Queen and includes ten of the twenty-two stories I've sold to the magazine since 2018 without an agent. You can also find my work—a good amount of it—in Black Cat Weekly. In the past few years, I've been a finalist for the Macavity, the Derringer, the Thriller, and twice for the Claymore Prize! I've been in the running for an Ellery Queen Reader's Choice Award a number of times, I've had work selected for various podcasts and reprints, and my stories have been selected three times for Best Mystery Stories of the Year (Mysterious Press). I've lost count of the readings and signings I've done, and—oh, yeah. Did I mention that I'm also a poet and young adult author? My poetry collection, Bewildered by All This Broken Sky, won the inaugural Lightscatter Prize in 2020, and my young adult novel, Big and Bad, was awarded the Paterson Prize for Books for Young People the same year. Many of these honors and awards came with nice checks attached, and every single one was achieved without the help of an agent. Now, that's quite a brag fest, but boasting isn't my purpose here. I want you to understand that many working writers are flying solo and finding success, and you can, too—if you're good enough, persistent enough, creative enough, and willing to put in the hours. Good luck!

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Learn more about Anna Scotti - and about publishing books and stories without an agent, garnering publicity, and teaching as a side career - at Anna K Scotti.  It's Not Even Past is available now from the publisher, from Amazon or Barnes and Noble, and by order from your local bookstore.

This Crazy Writing Life Performs Killer Nashville Post Mortems

By Steven Womack

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As I write this, it’s been almost three weeks since the 2025 Killer Nashville conference concluded. I intended to sit down and very quickly dash out some thoughts on what has become over the last couple of decades a major international writing conference.

The only problem is I was so overwhelmed by it all that it took me a few days to recover, then another week or so to gather my thoughts and wrap my head around what it all meant. While I’ve been to Killer Nashville many times as a panelist or a guest speaker, this was the first time I’ve ever gone full tilt on the conference (I was supposed to go total immersion last year, but I got an unexpected visit from Mr. Covid).

So this was the year when I went all-in on KN. I was on three panels, plus the wonderful Jaden (Beth) Terrell and the equally wonderful Lisa Wysocky and I did a master class called “Setting, Sidekicks, and Secrets” that took all of Thursday afternoon. I also attended a half-dozen or so panels. It was both intense and simultaneously exhilarating and exhausting.

After all this, what’s the takeaway?

First—and this is not a particularly brilliant observation—Killer Nashville has evolved from a small regional conference first conceived by its founder, Clay Stafford, twenty years ago to a major national mystery conference. I’d go so far as to say its eclipsed just about every other conference of its type. The program booklet alone is 100 pages long. The number of sponsors grows every year, and its two awards—the Silver Falchion and the Claymore Awards—have become major mystery awards, as evidenced by how many winners are now including the award on their websites, social media, and C.V.s. Major figures in the mystery and crime arena—like this year’s Guest of Honor appearance by Sara Paretsky—now show up at KN.

Second observation: Killer Nashville celebrates mystery and crime fiction, but its over-riding focus is on writing crime fiction. Aspiring writers come to Killer Nashville to learn about the craft and business of writing crime fiction. A great deal of the conference concentrates on putting writers together with agents and editors. Panels covered topics like “Steal Like an Artist: Learning from Other Author’s Novels,” “Writers and Taxes,” and “Writing Intimacy: From Fade to Black to Open Door.” These are all craft components and business components of the writing life.

While there’s plenty of stuff at Killer Nashville to interest readers, and readers certainly seem to be welcome, writers and aspiring writers are going to get the most out of the weekend.

This separates it from other conferences like Bouchercon, which remains the largest mystery convention in the world. Bouchercon brings together fans and creators of crime fiction on an equal basis to celebrate the genre. Fans go there to meet their favorite authors, and authors go there to be seen and to maintain a presence in the mystery community. While there are panels on craft (although after attending a number of Bouchercons, I can’t remember any), people mostly go to Bouchercon to either meet their heroes or to network and do business. I was introduced to my longest running literary agent at the Toronto Bouchercon in 1992.

At the 1995 Bouchercon in Nottingham, England, I met Anne Perry, which was a great thrill. We had the same editor at Ballantine Books, and he introduced us. For writers, that’s the great benefit of attending conventions and conferences. Once you’ve been multiply published, you probably don’t need a panel on writing compelling dialogue. But to meet your own literary heroes or make friends with a fellow writer who will introduce you to their editor or agent is a real plus (and obviously, you can do the same thing for other writers as well). I’ve met people at Bouchercon and other conferences who’ve remained lifelong friends.

Third observation: Killer Nashville has grown to the extent that it is, in some ways, busting at the seams. The conference sold out, and it can’t grow any bigger without relocating to a larger venue (you know how those pesky fire marshals are). More importantly, the schedule is jammed from morning ‘til night. I realize that the event schedulers have to try to accommodate every author who wants to be on a panel, and that’s a truly noble objective. But when you’ve got a moderator and five panelists speaking on a panel that only lasts 45 minutes, then by the time everyone’s introduced and you leave ten minutes at the end for Q&A, each person has maybe five-to-seven minutes speaking time. This precludes any kind of really deep dive on any subject.

Final observation: Despite its growth and evolution from a minor regional conference that nobody’s ever heard of to one of the 800-pound gorillas in the mystery world, Killer Nashville remains one of the most cordial, relaxed, friendly conferences out there. There’s very little competition among authors for attention (in fact, I saw none), and the people who run the conference, all the way up to founder Clay Stafford, remain approachable, helpful, and easy to work with.

So what’s the final takeaway?

Writers tend to be introverts. Given our druthers, most of us would probably stay home in our jammies and pound away on a keyboard while our coffee sits there getting cold. Unfortunately, that’s not the way This Crazy Writing Life works. Writers, publishers, editors, proofreaders, everyone who occupies a place on this long journey is a human being and humans need connection. Publishing is an industry built on connections. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to break out of our shells and comfort zones and get out there in the world, get our work out there into the world. I hate the term networking; it seems so mercenary. I’d prefer to think of it as building relationships based on mutual affection, goals, and aspirations.

And speaking of which, I’m off next week to St. Petersburg Beach to attend the annual Novelists, Inc. conference. I’ve mentioned Novelists, Inc. in previous columns. This is a different kind of conference. It’s all business and lots of hard work, but it also takes place on a gorgeous beachside resort, and the sponsors compete to throw the best dinners, parties, cocktail hours, and other goodies.

I know, I get it. It’s a dirty job but somebody’s gotta do it.

Thanks for playing along. See you next time.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – Writing at the Speed of a Melting Popsicle

By Andi Kopek

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A popsicle.

A little girl is holding a popsicle in her hand. The color is red.

It’s so hot—so steaming hot—that the popsicle is dripping on her fingers, but she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t even notice it. She licks it innocently. The popsicle drips through one finger, then the next, down her little pinky, onto her clothes, and finally, the ground. She doesn’t mind.

Why are popsicles called popsicles? Pop-sicle. From icicle? But why POP-sicle? Why not sun- sicle? Or sweet-sickle? Or slash-sickle?

When I was a little boy, I didn’t eat popsicles. Maybe ice cream on a stick—but I didn’t like them. They dripped too quickly. Dripping again. It was unpleasant. Nasty. I don’t like mess.

When I was a child I liked eating brine cucumbers instead—from a big barrel with herbs. From a local store with vegetables. Zielona Budka it was called. The Green Hut. I forgot the name of the herb. The name of the herb. The herb. But the smell was so distinct. Summers weren’t this hot or humid then. Definitely not this humid. They were bearable.

But I couldn’t step into the stream that flowed near our house. A sign nailed to a small pine tree said “Do Not Enter.” There was always this thin black line on the banks—pollution. So strange, isn’t it? That rivers are polluted? Dill. It was dill.

Same with the Baltic Sea. You’d walk along the shore and see a thin line of oil—leaking from tankers, maybe. How much oil needs to spill to leave a line like that? Shorelines stretch endlessly. So it must be a massive amount. And yet it’s just… normal. There was no way to talk about it. No one raised it as a question. No one wanted to listen.

It seemed hopeless to raise this issue. Hopelessness was everywhere. And it’s what made me move. Made me search for something else—some place where hope exists.

Because a hopeless man can’t make a difference. That’s unbearable. And passion? You couldn’t express passion. If you had feelings, you had to bury them. And you’d be dead. Had no feelings? How can you live without feelings? Also dead. Either way—passion or apathy—you were dead. So I looked for a place where you might feel alive. Really alive. And I moved.

And when I found it—disappointment. Because people are the same. Buildings are, pretty much, the same. At least similar. Some things differ, but at the core, no real changes. It was rather surprising. And disappointing.

No matter where you live, this side of the pond, or the other, this continent or that—people behave the same. Systems differ, sure. Maybe there’s more of one thing here, less of another there. But manipulation is the same. The desire to control others, the masses? The same.

Maybe there once were tribes, cultures, societies driven by different values. Not just different beliefs—different internal forces. Not focused on profit, progress, goals. But they’re gone.

Crushed. At least, they’re no longer the dominant force.

Put a peaceful person in a room with someone okay with killing… Guess who survives? The second one doesn’t blink and pulls the trigger. No hesitation. And no guilt afterward. No guilt afterward is terrifying. Can give me nightmares. That’s how people with high morality die.

That’s how reflective people disappear. That’s how good people don’t survive. Because the ones willing to negotiate, to coexist, to cooperate… by definition, they are always at a disadvantage. The ones who don’t care about destroying them? They win.

That’s how the world is skewed. And that balance? It will never be restored. Never existed. The imbalance repeats itself. One generation to the next. Until the skew becomes so extreme that people go mad and destroy each other. And justify it, of course. And then the remaining few start the cycle again.

That’s the story of human life on this planet. It’s so short. And so cyclic. We pride ourselves on our “progress.” We love talking about how our societies have “evolved.” But if you study history carefully, you’ll see, nothing is new.

We just forgot. We forget. We forget. We forget and repeat. Amnesia is built into the system. Everything from the past returns—distorted. A ghost, shifting form, always changing. We think we know it. But we don’t. We think we learn from history. But we don’t. And even if we do—it means nothing. We can’t or don’t want to act on it. Well, the ones who want, usually don’t have enough power. And if they make a change, it is rather short lived. Because of the nature of man.

So how do you enjoy life, knowing this? Knowing that we don’t learn? Knowing that goodness is always at a disadvantage? How do you live like that?

Maybe…

Maybe we just start with a popsicle. On a hot, humid, sunny August day.

At a brewery where kids run around and play…

Author’s Note

This piece was created using a stream-of-consciousness technique, beginning with a real observation of a child holding a melting popsicle at a local brewery during this summer’s extreme heat. Because my writing speed lags substantially behind the pace of my thoughts, I decided to record them instead—capturing this internal monologue as it unfolded. It was recorded on an iPhone 13Pro Max using the Voice Memos app, transcribed via Otter.ai, and lightly edited for readability.

As both a neuroscientist and writer, I’m fascinated by stream-of-consciousness as a way of capturing thought in its raw, unfiltered form—before logic and language shape it. Writers like Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, and Clarice Lispector explored this terrain, but the tone and emotional cadence of this piece are perhaps closest to the style of Thomas Bernhard. The process felt amazing, like creating in a fascinating, improvisational way, as if the thoughts were composing themselves in real time.

Final thought: One of my previous columns explored writer’s block. The stream-of- consciousness approach can be a powerful antidote for the block, allowing creativity to freeflow.

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his monthly art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.

This Crazy Writing Life: Binge Writing In This Crazy Writing Life

By Steven Womack

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I recently watched a YouTube interview with John Grisham in which he described his writing “ritual.” Grisham writes a book a year, like clockwork, and he starts at seven o’clock each morning. He begins a new novel every January first, and he’s finished in six months. His writing studio is a separate building with no phones, internet or any other distractions. He’s focused, his writing time is rigidly structured, and it rarely varies.

I’ve read interviews with other writers who have similar routines or rituals. Most of them involve getting up at the butt-crack of dawn, never letting anything disturb them or their focus, and incorporating a certain approach to the work that can best be described by the term laser-locked.

I wish I could do that but, dang it, I just can’t. For one thing, if I’m up at 7 o’clock in the morning, it’s because I haven’t been to bed yet. Grisham says he writes five days a week. I’ve heard other writers say they write every day, seven days a week, and if they happen to finish one manuscript in the middle of their writing day, then they just open a new file on the computer and start the next book.

This baffles me.

All this can’t help but remind me of the old Richard Pryor joke about the friend whose wife was in labor for two days straight. “I don’t want to do anything that feels good for two days straight!”

It’s not that I’m lazy, although lately—for a lot of reasons—I haven’t been very productive. I actually work quite hard and am reasonably organized and structured. But I’m not by any stretch of the imagination laser-locked. I find that writing works best when the mind and the imagination are allowed to wander about for awhile, to roam around and look in corners and see what’s there. I even find distractions useful, especially if I’ve written myself in a corner. I’m in the middle of a scene or a chapter and suddenly I don’t know which way to go next.

So I pull up the old web browser and find some clickbait to explore. I’m a sucker for clickbait. Throw a box up on my screen with a lead like Ten Forgotten One Hit Wonders From 1966 and it’s a pretty good bet I’m gonna click that sucker. And if I don’t recognize one of the one-hit wonders, I’m going to pop over to YouTube and watch some old black-and-white kinescope of the band performing it on Shindig.

Strangely enough, when I’ve finished watching the YouTube video and go back to the screen where the manuscript is perched, something magical will have happened and I know where to go next. This happens to me a lot. Does this mean that while I’m watching some obscure video that my subconscious is churning around trying to solve the problem? Or is just that clearing the mind for a few minutes allows you to look at the scene differently than when you were creatively deep in the weeds and saw no way out?

I don’t know. Truthfully, I don’t really analyze it very much. Overthinking these things is not a good policy either.

Many years ago, in the early days of my teaching career at Watkins Film School, the writer/director/producer Coke Sams visited the school and spoke to our students. Sams, whose credits include Ernest Scared Stupid and Existo, among many others, described his process and it gave me great comfort. He said that when he’s working on a project—whether it be a script or a film or anything else—when he’s on it, he’s totally on it. He’s completely absorbed, swallowed up by it, or to coin a Tarentino-ism, he gets medieval on it.

Then when he’s done, he needs some serious time off.

“I’m a binge-writer,” he told our students.

That’s it. Somebody finally nailed it. When I’m in the middle of a project, I’m on it like white on rice. I once finished the first draft of a novel in seven weeks. Usually, it takes a lot longer, but when I’m done, I’m spent. The well is dry.

And I need to allow time for it to fill up again.

Then, there’s life. Life can really get in the way of the important stuff like writing.

On the surface, 2025 has been a productive year so far. I finished writing, editing and indie-pubbing an eBook memoir of my twenty-five years as a film school professor, Death Of A College. After at least five years, I finally won the battle with Harper Collins to get the rights back to my standalone thriller By Blood Written, revised it, and indie-pubbed it with its new title, Blood Plot.

Two books in six months; not too shabby.

Dig a little deeper, though, and the lipstick rubs off this pig pretty easily. After a solid year of writing a proposal for a three-book historical series for an editor at a medium-sized publisher, I was thrilled to get an offer. This would be the best book deal I’ve had in a long time and one of the best ever. This project could turn my struggling career around. Only problem is this medium-sized traditional publisher is the process of being acquired by a larger, multi-media, deep-pockets company (this is why the editor was able to offer me a more lucrative deal than one usually sees these days). Until the acquisition is complete, contracts can’t be signed and, obviously, advances will not be forthcoming.

The acquisition process is coming up on two years now.

If I were as focused and disciplined as some other writers, I’d have gotten to work on this project so that when the contracts came through, I’d have the three books finished. But for some reason or other, I just can’t seem to muster the bandwidth. For one thing, while I trust the people involved and do believe this will eventually happen, there’s that voice inside my head that constantly reminds me that when something sounds too good to be true, it usually is.

Then there’s the outside world. I don’t know how you guys feel, but I and many of my friends feel like the world’s becoming a little more unhinged every day. Politics, the economy, wars raging, floods flooding, people starving… I’m reminded of the song by Paul Thorn, one of my favorite artists, who wrote and sang a wonderful song called What The Hell Is Going On?

That sums it up for me, or as Yeats wrote: Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.

So far this year, I’ve had two friends pass away in a ten-day stretch. We’ve had to throw several thousand dollars at my wife’s old car to keep it running because, candidly, I can’t afford to replace it. We discovered hidden water damage that caused the siding on the front of our house to decide it wanted to be set free from the rest of it. That was a quick wheelbarrow full of cash down the drain (and you can only imagine how helpful our insurance company was).

Life seems to be one problem after another, one shock after another, one hassle after another. Life is full of conflict and complications. Makes it very hard to focus on that chapter you need to get out today…

Years ago, we were in San Francisco and went to Musée Mécanique, the museum of coin-operated machines and arcade games. It’s a real hoot; if you’re ever in San Francisco, it’s a must-see. While there, I encountered an arcade game that took me back fondly to my younger days: Whac-A-Mole. 

For the uninitiated, Whac-A-Mole is an arcade game with a bunch of holes on the top. At random intervals and speeds, small fake-furry plastic moles pop out of the holes and the player whacks them with a soft, spongy mallet. You knock one mole back into its hole and another one pops up, rapid-fire.

My only question is when did a silly arcade game become a metaphor for life?

My wife took a photo. For five years, a framed copy of the photo hung outside my office door for the five years I was Chair of the Watkins Film School. It perfectly encapsulated my job description.

Here it is and I hope you get a chuckle out of it. That’s it for this month’s episode of This Crazy Writing Life. As always, thanks for playing along.

P.S. I don’t know whether this column will be published in Killer Nashville Magazine before or after this year’s Killer Nashville conference begins on August 21st. For the first time in a couple of years, I’m going to be able to attend the whole conference (last year I had to cancel because of Covid). I’m doing a Master Class with Jaden Terrell and Lisa Wysocky and appearing on two other panels. I’m looking forward to meeting as many folks as possible.

And if this column appears after the conference, I hope you all had a great time.

When a Rejection Isn’t Really a Rejection

By Lois Winston

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The unicorn of publishing occurs when an author with her first book immediately gets an agent, then scores a six-figure, multi-book deal, all within a few weeks. For the rest of us, it can take anywhere from years to decades. During that time, we deal with too many people telling us our baby is butt ugly (although hopefully, not in such harsh words).

As much as we try to develop Teflon-coated skin to keep the rejections from getting to us, it’s not easy. Our emotional awareness is one of our writing superpowers. We not only often cry while reading certain scenes in books or watching them in movies or TV shows, but we’ve even been known to shed more than a tear or two while writing a poignant scene. That same heightened sense of emotion is what makes it difficult for us to deal with rejections.

However, publishing is a tough business. It’s run by bean counters who are always looking at the bottom line. Finding an editor who loves your book is only the first step in selling your book. Few editors have the power to make unilateral decisions. They need to convince others at the publishing house that your book is worthy of a contract.

The truth about this profession we’ve chosen is that you WILL get rejected because everyone gets rejected, even bestselling authors, even the unicorn author when her unicorn book doesn’t live up to its hype and earn out that mega-advance.

If you can’t deal with rejection, you have two choices: you can toughen up, or you can save yourself the heartache by quitting before those rejection letters start filling your inbox.

When I started writing, no one told me the publishing facts of life. By the time I discovered the odds were stacked against me, I’d been infected by the writing bug and couldn’t stop writing. If you HAVE to write, if writing is as much a part of you as eating, sleeping, and breathing, keep writing.

In the beginning, I received my share of form rejection letters. The worst was a 1/2” x 1” rubber stamped NOT FOR US at the top of my query letter, which was shoved back into my SASE. I wondered if I was a glutton for punishment or simply delusional, but I couldn’t stop writing.

One day I found myself with three agents interested in the same manuscript. I chose the agent who rose at 6am on a Sunday morning to call from Hawaii where she was attending a conference. I figured if she was that eager to land me as a client, she’d be as aggressive about selling my work.

Little did either of us realize how long it would take to convince the publishing world of my talent. Most agents cut a client loose after a year or two of not being able to sell their work. Mine stuck with me. Her faith in my writing kept me writing through years of rejections. When you have a professional who believes in you that much, you don’t give up on your dreams. (Family doesn’t count. They’re supposed to love and believe in you).

Having an agent meant I no longer received form rejection letters. Editors took the time to highlight what they liked about each book but also why they were rejecting it. This was how I learned that sometimes a book is rejected for purely business reasons and has nothing to do with the quality of the author’s writing.

But here’s another truth about publishing: sometimes writers sabotage themselves. Although editors will tell an agent why a book was rejected, they rarely give specific information to unagented writers. If an agent or editor takes the time to outline her reasons for rejecting your manuscript, file that rejection away at your own risk.

After you’ve stomped around the house, ranted about the unfairness of life, called your critique group to cry on their collective shoulders, eaten way too much chocolate, and washed it down with too many glasses of wine, stop whining and get to work. Because that rejection isn’t a rejection; it’s a rejection for now. And there’s a big difference.

If an agent or editor explains why your book is being rejected and what you need to do to revise it, she’s telling you she’s open to you resubmitting that manuscript to her. Otherwise, she wouldn’t bother. She’d simply reject with a standard thank you for submitting (fill in the book’s title) but a) this isn’t right for us b) we already have an author writing similar books or c) we’ve already filled our list of (fill in the genre) for this year.

Settle your tush in your chair, place your fingers on the keyboard, and start revising that manuscript. Don’t take forever, though. The agent or editor doesn’t expect a one-week turnaround, but there’s an expiration date on that offer of resubmission. Wait too long, and by the time you send it back to her, she may have already found a similar author or book.

Even if you send your revised manuscript to the editor in a reasonable amount of time, you still might receive a rejection if she can’t get approval to offer you a contract. If that happens, it’s not the end of the world. You now have a much better manuscript to send off to other agents or editors. And who knows? You might wind up with a better offer.

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USA Today and Amazon bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry. She also worked for twelve years as an associate at a literary agency. Her most recent release is Seams Like the Perfect Crime, the fourteenth book in her Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Series. Join her at this year’s Killer Nashville banquet where she’ll be the Keynote Speaker and divulge the other clues she got along the way to becoming a published author. Learn more about Lois and her books at www.loiswinston.com. Sign up for her newsletter to receive an Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery.

This Crazy Writing Life: Some Random Reflections On The Reality of This Crazy Writing Life

By Steven Womack

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A couple of weeks ago, I did a Zoom panel for the Middle Tennessee chapter of Sisters in Crime called Indie Pubbing Mistakes And How To Avoid Them. Chapter President Beth (Jaden) Terrell moderated the panel, and Lisa Wysocky, Jenna Bennett and I had a very lively and engaging exploration of how to survive this crazy business. As I was prepping for the panel (an hour or so before we were scheduled to go on), I came across a couple of statistics that left me kind of gobsmacked.

For some reason or other, I started pondering how many books were published around the world every year. I wondered if it were even possible to find an answer to that question. More importantly, did I even want to know how many books were published every year? I feared that the number might be even more daunting than I expected.

So I cranked up my local internet search engine and wound up going down a rabbit hole that I haven’t managed to pull myself out of yet…

The first step was UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization. I don’t know much about UNESCO and have no connection personally to the organization beyond dim childhood memories of collecting money for them at Halloween back in elementary school (oh wait, that might have been UNICEF). One of UNESCO’s missions is to compile statistics and information on the number of books published because it’s an important index of how world literacy is progressing and our level of education, which is directly related to the standard of living.

According to their best estimates, 2.2 million books were published around the world last year.

Let’s all take a moment to get our heads around this.

Two-point-two million published books a year means that, on average, 6,027 books are published every day, seven-days-a-week, around the clock.

So if that doesn’t make your head spin, let me add their disclaimer: this doesn’t include self/independently published books. While I can’t imagine there’s a completely accurate way of determining how many indies are released every year, UNESCO estimates that adding these to the mix raises the number to nearly four million books a year.

That takes us up to nearly 11,000 books a day.

I don’t know what else to say beyond Holy Crap…

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Continuing on down this rabbit hole, I turned to one of the best Substack writers I’ve found in the past couple of years. . . Elle Griffin. Elle, based in Salt Lake City, writes The Elysian, a newsletter that examines the world and the future through the eyes of an essayist and fiction writer trying to stay centered in the shifting sands of publishing, culture, and life. Her stuff is top-notch, and I highly recommend tracking her down and subscribing (her March 2021 essay No One Will Read Your Book, is essential reading).

In April 2024, Elle wrote an exhaustive and fascinating essay on the publishing business—called No one buys books—set against the backdrop of Penguin Random House’s attempt to acquire Simon & Schuster. The merging of these two publishing houses—who between them make up nearly half of the entire market share of American publishing—would have meant the Big 5 would now be the Big 4 (along with Harper Collins, Macmillan, and Hachette Livre).

The Department of Justice brought an antitrust case against the proposed acquisition and a judge ultimately ruled that the 2.2-billion-dollar merger would indeed create a monopoly, thereby putting the kibosh on the deal.

This was no real big surprise, but what was an eye-opening surprise was the testimony of all the experts called at the trial. It was like in the middle of all the flashing lights, booming sound effects, flame jets, sound and fury, somebody pulled aside the curtain to reveal the shriveled up little mean-spirited man who was pulling all the strings. The truth about the publishing industry was stripped naked and exposed for all to see in its hideous ugliness.

And while what I’m putting in front of you now may seem negative and pessimistic in nature, I’ve always believed that in almost any of life’s endeavors, most of the time it’s better to know what you’re up against. And as Matty Walker said in Larry Kasdan’s great Body Heat, knowledge is power.

So some essential, if ugly, truths:

One expert called to testify in the PRH anti-trust lawsuit collected data on some 58,000 titles. Ninety percent of those titles sold less than 2,000 copies. Fifty percent sold less than a dozen.

Gulp…

The contemporary traditional publishing business model is more like a Silicon Valley venture capitalist’s model than the old myth of a small family firm publishing books they love. In this model, you throw a bunch of money at a bunch of projects and hope that a few of them manage to survive, and even fewer become unicorn breakouts. The ones that do become breakouts get even more money thrown at them. The very top successes get a truckload of money thrown at them. At this level, one consultant reported, this means about 2 percent of the published titles.

Celebrity authors—whether they’re real authors, athletes, movie stars, politicians, or just famous for being famous (Kardashians, anyone?)—get a big hunk of all advance money (and therefore, support) from traditional publishers. Franchise authors—the ones who show up on best-seller lists time after time after time—also get a huge share of the pie. Even then, celebrity authors don’t always sell. Fame doesn’t guarantee a best seller: just ask Andrew Cuomo, Billie Eilish, and Piers Morgan—well-known celebrities whose books flopped like freshly landed catfish.

In evidence provided during the trial, Penguin Random House produced an infographic that revealed for every 100 books they publish, 35 are profitable. Profitable might mean a huge success with truckloads of money coming in or it might mean $.01 over breakeven. As few as 2 of those 100 books account for the lion’s share of profitability.

A traditional publishing house’s backlist, however, is a constant revenue stream of profit. Backlist means all the books the house has ever published that are still in print. Classics—from Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to more recent contemporary books like Stephen King’s Carrie—are money machines that houses can count on. Popular children’s books can hang around forever as a new generation of young parents reads the books they loved as a child to their own children. Elle Griffin noted in her essay that Penguin Random House’s edition of Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar has been on Publisher Weekly’s bestseller list every week for the past 19 years.

But to get on that backlist, you’ve first got to succeed on the frontlist. 

So with all the discouraging news and mountain-high obstacles, what’s one to do?

For the past year-and-a-half, I’ve been writing monthly columns for Killer Nashville Magazine on independent publishing. If you take nothing else away from this, then understand that indie pubbing (and as I’ve yelled over and over again at the top of my lungs, don’t call it self-publishing) is not just a phenomenon or a ripple in the history of publishing. It’s nothing short of a movement, even a revolution. Publishing houses (and for that matter, literary agents) who acted as gatekeepers in times past are through; they just don’t know it yet.

Run the numbers I cited earlier. If 2.2 million books are published around the world by traditional houses, then you add in indie pubbed books and the number approaches four million, that means that nearly half the books published in the world are indie pubbed. We’re about to cross a Rubicon here if, in fact, it hasn’t already been crossed. In some genres—romance, for instance—it has already been crossed. The mass market Romance paperback is gone, dethroned by the eBook.

This is not, by any means, to suggest that indie pubbing is a panacea, or the answer to all our problems as writers. I turned to indie pubbing because I had projects or out-of-print trad pubbed books that no house would take. When you work that hard on something, you shouldn’t leave it lying in a desk drawer to yellow with age. So I stared indie pubbing and only afterward learned that I liked having control of titles, cover, editorial, etc. And I liked not having to wait years to see book come into print. But it’s an enormous amount of work and I’m still not making anywhere near the money I once hoped to make as a writer of commercial fiction.

So if one of the Big Five (or for that matter, a smaller house) came to me and offered me a sweet deal to publish a book of mine, would I take it?

Hell, yes.

That’s it for this month’s This Crazy Writing Life. Thanks for hanging in there with me.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – The Many Flavors of “No”

By Andi Kopek

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I don’t think I’m spilling the beans when I say that a big chunk of a writer’s life is spent being told we’re not the flavor of the day. Rejection isn’t a side dish—it’s the main course of the creative life.

I’ve recently received several rejections on various projects I’m working on—I felt like I’d wandered into a Sunday all-you-can-weep brunch buffet. If misery were my main dish, this would’ve been the most generous buffet ever.

There was a bottomless mimosa of “unfortunately this doesn’t fit our needs,” a half-baked quiche of “not this time,” and a towering rejection waffle bar where every topping was a different shade of “we encourage you to submit again.” And then came a note from the chef: “Your novel is just a word salad.” The cheese cream of encouragement on the expired self-esteem toast was, unfortunately, spread too thin.

Then, it shouldn’t be a surprise, that tears accumulated so rapidly, they flooded not only my eyes but also my throat. Rejection can make it impossible to swallow anything but self-doubt—and even that could become a choking hazard.

What’s the Heimlich maneuver for staying alive through it all? Luckily, the literary survival menu offers a few options:

1. Reframe the Narrative

Rejection, while never pleasant, is best viewed as data for you, not a judgment of you. Most often, it reflects a question of fit rather than a verdict on your worth as a writer or the value of your work. Even the most celebrated authors—those whose names now grace syllabi and prize lists: Toni Morrison, Stephen King, Ursula K. Le Guin, Sylvia Plath, Vladimir Nabokov, William Faulkner, J. K. Rowling, George Orwell, James Baldwin, Octavia Butler, Agatha Christie—were once on the receiving end of countless polite (and impolite) declines: We are sorry, but we are closed. Please come back later. It is important to accept that rejection is not an exception to the writer’s path; it is the path.

2. Improve the Craft

Once you realize that rejection is inevitable, try to use it to your advantage. Rejection can be a golden (or at least charred) opportunity to return to your work with fresh eyes. As a once-famous chef said, moments after his kitchen caught fire while flambéing crêpes Suzette: “There’s always room for improvement.” So go to that room—and improve. Better yet, invite a few trusted friends or mentors to join you. Constructive criticism can serve as sturdy scaffolding for a kitchen renovation worth writing about. Because sometimes, all a story needs is a little open- window feedback and the removal of one very flammable sentence.

3. Refocus on Purpose

If, nevertheless, rejection starts to sting too deeply, like a pinch of salt in a fresh wound, it helps to put back on the counter the most fundamental, basic ingredient—why you began writing in the first place. Hopefully not for applause, algorithms, or acceptance letters—but for truth, for self- expression, for insight, and for the chance to spark change. To make this world a better place. So, at this instance, step away from the publishing hustle, even for a brief moment, and return to writing for yourself. The quiet joy of creation, free from outcome, is still the most reliable form of literary survival. Go back to your kitchen, take a piece of sourdough bread, spread in slow, careful motions I-can’t-believe-it’s-real-butter on it, put slices of your favorite ingredients on top, bring it all to a wooden rocker on your porch, and listen to birds while reflecting on your rejected existence.

4. Protect Your Mental Health

While rocking on the porch, allow yourself to feel the disappointment, as it is a natural response. However, don’t let it spiral into endless rumination. Set emotional boundaries around the sting. Resist the urge to compare your journey to others, especially in the curated chaos of social media. We have a tendency to compare ourselves to others who we think did “better” in our minds. If you have to compare yourself to others, choose someone who did “worse.” But truly, the best thing is not to compare yourself to other oranges. Remember, you are the Golden Delicious! Sometimes the best way to move forward is to stop, eat a dessert, breathe, eat a dessert, and listen to what your writing self needs next. And eat the dessert.

5. Build a Support System

Once you’re full, connect with a writing group or creative community—people who understand that rejection isn’t taboo, but a shared rite of passage. Talk about it openly. Naming the “no” out loud helps to normalize it, to strip it of its sting and secrecy. And don’t wait for a publication to throw a party—celebrate the small wins with others: the finished draft, the brave submission, the day you kept writing despite the doubt. But you know what? Why not celebrate rejection? Post: Dear friends! This Sunday, a potluck at my place. Bring comfort food. Don’t forget napkins and handkerchiefs. We will eat and cry. A lot. Together.

6. Have Fun

Once you gather your friends, your support buddies, have some fun. One amazing and surprisingly cathartic way to reclaim rejection is through blackout poetry—taking a rejection letter and redacting it until only a strange, accidental poem remains. Suddenly, “We regret to inform you” becomes the opening line of a noir love story. You can also gather your favorite rejections into a DIY zine: decorate it, title it something defiant like “Thanks, But No Thanks,” and share it with fellow potluckers. You can also cut the letter (which by itself can be therapeutic) into single words, half-sentences, and indecisive punctuation marks, then rearrange them along with your friends Burroughs-style—giving the scraps new meaning, new logic, and possibly the first interesting thing that letter ever produced.

Lastly, you can write a column about it.

Rejection will likely always be on the menu, but it doesn’t have to be the last course. You can chew it slowly, spit it out, or flambé it into something oddly nourishing. The truth is, if you’re getting rejected, it means you’re in the game. You’re sending your strange little soufflés into the world, hoping one of them lands in the right oven and rises just right, filling the room with the unmistakable aroma of something worth savoring. And that, in itself, is worthy of celebration. So pass the mimosa, taste the quiche, and keep having fun writing. Even if you’re not the flavor of the day, you’re still cooking.

Bon appétit, fellow word-chefs.

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his monthly art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.

This Crazy Writing Life: Dipping Our Toes In The Amazon Part Two — On Swimming Upstream...

By Steven Womack

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It’s hard to believe that this is installment number twelve of This Crazy Writing Life. How did a whole year go by so fast?

Maybe it’s just me. Time does seem to go by in a blur these days. Add to that the information overload and analysis paralysis we all seem to be afflicted with these days and it’s easy to see how time and life can both just go streaming by like another dreary Netflix movie.

If you’re a newcomer to this little adventure, thanks for joining us. If you’re a regular, thanks for hanging with me. I hope you’re getting something out of it.

So let’s get to work…

* * *

We left off last month with the basics of Amazon ads and, by extension, some fundamentals of digital advertising in general. CPC versus CPM ads, Sponsored Product ads, Sponsored Brands, and Lockscreen ads were all explored. If you need to catch up on some of this stuff, then pull up last month’s column. It’s all there.

Now let’s go a bit deeper, into the underlying architecture of a digital ad campaign. By architecture, I mean how ads are built on Amazon. There’s a hierarchical system at work here that looks something like a pyramid. It’s important to have a basic understanding of how the system works because this is how you organize your advertising efforts. If you’re only advertising one book with one ad at a time, there’s not much to keep track of. But if you’ve got a dozen books out there (or as some indie authors have, dozens or even hundreds of books), then keeping all this stuff straight is a completely different challenge. And as Ricardo Fayet observed in the best book I’ve ever found on learning this platform—Amazon Ads For Authors—the best performing ad campaigns are almost always the best organized.

At the top of the pyramid is the Campaign. Amazon gives you two options here: Custom text campaigns and Standard ad campaigns. There are a couple of key differences between the two.

As the name implies, Custom text campaigns allow you to write your own distinctive ad copy (up to 150 characters) that you can use to try and convince a potential reader to buy your book. The downside here is that you can only advertise one book at a time.

An Amazon Standard ad campaign, though, will allow you to advertise as many books as you want within the same campaign. Say you’ve got ten books in a cozy mystery series. With a Standard ad campaign, you can get all ten books into an “ad group” and Amazon’s algorithm will decide with books will pop up in an ad. The downside here is that the only information the prospective customer will get is the title, the series title, the author’s name and a few other elements of metadata. No creativity allowed…

So the real issue here is twofold: 1) how many books are you trying to wedge into your campaign; and 2) how important is it to be able to write some custom ad copy. If you’re promoting a single, standalone suspense/thriller, then maybe those 150 characters of sparkling creative ad copy are important to you. On the other hand, if you’re campaign is plugging a private eye series with 25 installments, then the Standard ad campaign may give you the most bang per buck.

One big, albeit fairly advanced, component of Custom Ad campaigns is that you can run what’s called A/B testing. You write one set of copy for Ad #1, then a second set for Ad #2. You launch both campaigns at the same time with the same parameters, then measure the success of each one, which is usually done by comparing click-through-rates (CTR) and actual sales. But again, as always with Amazon, this can be a bit complicated. For one thing, you have to create two separate campaigns. You can’t run two ads with different copy in one Custom ad campaign. And you have to launch both campaigns at the same time, with the same product, same budgets, and same targeting.

Lastly, you have to let each campaign run long enough to get a true assessment of how each one’s doing. The longer, the better.

Patience: that one thing we all have so much of…

In last month’s column, we examined the three basic kinds of Amazon ads and examined how the Sponsored Products ad was the one most commonly deployed by indie authors. One of the many things you have to consider when you’re creating a campaign is the bidding strategy you’re going to deploy. As we explored last month, Amazon ads are based on a bidding system. You don’t just buy an ad on Amazon and it suddenly appears; you bid for space on the platform.

Amazon ads, as we also explored last month, are CPC—or Cost Per Click—only. You don’t get a choice on the type of bid, but you can choose the strategy to take when you create the campaign.

You can choose to go with dynamic bids. Dynamic bids change depending on certain parameters—the search terms the customer used, for example. Dynamic bids can be down only, which means Amazon, in its great wisdom, will lower your bid for clicks that are less likely to convert to a sale. This can help preserve your ad spend budget.

The other alternative dynamic bid strategy is called up and down. With this strategy, they’ll raise your bid by as much as 100% for placements, for example, at the top of the first page of search results—prime real estate on Amazon—or when a search query is especially well-matched to your book. Since they raise your bid in these cases, you are more likely to see a better conversion rate and higher sales.

Conversely, in cases where the search query is not such a good match or your ad’s going to be relegated to a less juicy spot, then the algorithm can lower your bid by as much as 50%.

If you don’t want to employ dynamic bidding and want more control, then you can check the box that triggers the Fixed Bid strategy. In this case, Amazon will only bid the amount you choose, but like everything Amazon, there’s a trade-off here. With the Fixed Bid strategy, you may get more impressions, but fewer conversions. Depending on the goal of your campaign, that may be okay.

Finally, you can use a kind of hybrid strategy, where you don’t give up total control to Amazon but you create a set of rules that will take the guesswork out of moving your bids up or down to achieve a goal. This gets into concepts like Return on Ad Spend (ROAS), which leads us into some pretty advanced stuff in the world of digital advertising.

So we’ve tackled two important first considerations: the type of ad campaign and the bidding strategy we’re going to employ. Now we tackle the issue of targeting. The beauty and genius of digital advertising is it’s not like broadcasting a commercial on TV, where your target audience is every bozo who owns a television and happens to have it on when your ad runs. Digital platforms—especially Amazon—devote an enormous amount of time and energy to tracking and analyzing what their customers search for and buy. With decades of experience and billions of dollars expended, Amazon’s pretty good at it.

For many authors, your best bet is to choose Automatic Targeting. This is the easiest to set up and you’re basically, to coin a phrase from the old Greyhound Bus commercials of my youth, leaving the driving to them.

But how does Amazon do this? As Ricardo points out so eloquently in his book, like many things Amazon, that’s a bit of a mystery. Amazon guards its algorithms and proprietary information very closely. But they look for matches in their automatic targeting: close matches to search queries, loose matches, substitutes, and things that complement the search query. Amazon decides in each case if the search query is anywhere near relevant to your product and to what degree. How does it do this?

Through your metadata…

This might mean the title, subtitle or series title of your book. The categories you chose when you uploaded the book (and, oh boy, that’s a whole ball of wax) and your keywords and product description. All of this data goes into the Amazon machine, goes ‘round and ‘round, and then comes out here.

One caveat here is that for novelists or mystery writers like most of us, this is a much more inexact science. Novels, in general, are much harder to fit into a niche or category than nonfiction books. A nonfiction book on organic farming is pretty easy to target; a dystopic LGBTQ, YA, coming-of-age standalone is a bit more of a challenge.

One of the great benefits of Automatic Targeting is that Amazon will tell you what keywords and products your ad targeted. It’s a bit of a process with a couple of ways to get there, but that’s valuable information. Once you know the most successful search terms and keywords, you can go in and adjust your ads to increase their performance.

You can also use this data to find out which keywords are misleading or inaccurate and plug those into your campaign as negative keywords. What are negative keywords? These are search terms that if a prospective buyer types those into the search bar, your book will deliberately not show up in the results. How is this useful?

You write cozy mysteries. So you enter gore, erotica, horror as negative keywords and it guarantees someone searching for those terms will never see your book. That can be mighty useful.

Next month, we’ll move onto Manual Targeting and keep going. As you might have guessed, tackling Amazon ads is a multi-installment rodeo on This Crazy Writing Life. And even then, this is all designed as a beginner’s primer on Amazon and other forms of digital advertising. What you’re willing to learn and take on is up to you. If you’re really into this, you can go back to college and get a graduate degree in this stuff.

* * *

One of the reasons the last couple of columns for Killer Nashville Magazine have run a little late is that I’m up to my nether regions in indie pubbing a book right now. This was a novel I published first in hardcover a long time ago with Severn House in England and later with Harper Collins in mass-market paperback. The novel, By Blood Written, was a standalone serial killer novel and it was by far the most graphically violent and cutting-edge book I’ve written. I had great hopes for this as a breakout book, but in both cases, it was so badly published it went nowhere. Even the Harper Collins paperback sank without a trace when the editor, who was really pumped about the book, took another job a few months before pub date (which is called being orphaned in the book biz).

For years I tried to get the rights reverted to me. Harper Collins is notorious for not reverting rights to authors, but after several years and many attempts, I finally got a rights reversion letter. I’ve retitled the book, which will now be called Blood Plot, and commissioned what I think is a fabulous cover that serves as an homage to the great pulp fiction paperbacks of the Forties and Fifties. Here’s a look:

I’m just completed formatting the eBook with Atticus (which I’ve written about before) and am going to tackle the learning curve to use Atticus for typesetting the hardcover and trade paperback editions.

I only mention this because the column is all about the freedom and options of indie pubbing (as well as the enormous amount of sweat equity that’s involved). This can be a case study for what we’re all talking about.

Thanks again for playing along. I’d love to hear what you think of the cover or anything else that I bring up in This Crazy Writing Life. Feel free to drop me a line any time at: WomackWriter@yahoo.com.

Between Pen and Paper: Flaneuring Through a Writer’s Mind – Maintaining Resolutions

By Andi Kopek

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Today, as we flaneur through a writer’s mind, we stumble into the dark corners of failed New

Year’s resolutions.

It’s February. Early February as I write these words, and mid-February or later as you read them. (This column, as part of Killer Nashville Magazine, will most likely reach you on Tuesday, February 18, 2025.) By now, the excitement of New Year's resolutions has faded, often replaced by the bitterness of broken promises. The January miracle didn’t happen. Gyms are half-empty again. I can already see buds forming on the tree branches, whispering, "Spring is coming."

Soon, it’ll be time for Spring Resolutions, so let’s talk about what actually makes a resolution successful—so that we might avoid Spring’s “inevitable” disappointment.

Writers & Resolutions: Why Do We Struggle?

Writers, of course, are no strangers to resolutions. Many of us eagerly declare our goals at the start of the year: "I will write more!" And yet, despite believing we were born to write, despite feeling it is our calling, our destiny, we fall into the same trap as everyone else—abandoning our resolution by February.

But what about our characters? Have you ever considered that they might also set New Year’s resolutions—maybe even without us realizing it?

Ask your serial killer protagonist about his resolution. Perhaps he wants to increase his yearly quota by 10%.

What about your vampire? Maybe she has vowed to feed only on eco-friendly, organic- conscious individuals with well-maintained work-life balance this year.

And your poltergeist ghost? Maybe it's decided to put some beat on an erratic flickering of lights and slamming cabinet doors and sync them perfectly with Bob Marley’s greatest hits.

Yes, indeed—most of us fail to achieve our New Year’s resolutions. And, probably, so do our characters.

Why Do Resolutions Fail?

First, based on the Behavior Change theory, our goals are not, most likely, SMART - Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Time-bound. What is important is that a successful New Year resolution needs to fulfill all of these criteria at once. In order to be in 9% of Americans who successfully keep their New Year’s resolution throughout the year, our set goal needs to meet ALL of these criteria. Not just one. Not just most. All. The resolution needs to be

Specific AND Measurable AND Achievable AND Relevant AND Time-bound. I would also add “I” to it for Individualized, making it a SMARTI goal. Only by meeting all these features simultaneously can we ensure our New Year’s resolution succeeds.

Writer’s SMARTI Goal

What that would mean for a writer? Here is an example. A typical writer’s resolution may look like this: “I want to write more this year.” This goal is vague, unmeasurable, and lacks structure. What does “more” even mean here: more than last year or more consistently? There’s no way to track progress, there is no deadline, and no plan to achieve it.

Let’s turn it into a SMARTI New Year’s resolution: "I will write 500 words every weekday for the next three months, using a writing tracker to measure progress, and completing a short story by April 31st.”

Why this is SMART?

✔ Specific – Instead of just "write more," it defines how much (500 words), how often (every weekday), and what kind (short story).

✔ Measurable – 500 words a day is a clear metric. A writing tracker will show progress.

✔ Achievable – 500 words a day is reasonable for most writers, unlike “write a novel in two weeks.”

✔ Relevant – This aligns with the writer’s goal of writing consistently and producing stories.

✔ Time-bound – The goal has a three-month deadline and an end product (short story by April 31st).

✔Individualized – this resolution will work for YOU but may not for someone else. So, YOU need to be sure that writing 500 words a day is achievable by YOU.

TIP - you need to be painfully honest with yourself, particularly regarding the achievable criteria. If you never had a week of writing every day 500 words it is unlikely you can keep it up for 12 weeks. Scale it down to a truly realistic number for YOU.

Our Characters’ SMARTI Goals

A serial killer poor New Year’s resolution: "I want to kill 10% more people this year.” Improved, SMARTI New Year’s resolution of a serial killer: "I will successfully eliminate 12 targets this year (one per month), focusing on high-profile yet low-risk victims. I will track progress through coded journal entries and refine my methods after each incident. By December 31st, I will have executed my most sophisticated kill yet, leaving behind no forensic evidence."

Breaking down the SMARTI Goal:

✔ Specific – Specifies how many (12), who (high-profile, low-risk), and how (refining methods).

✔ Measurable – One kill per month = clear, trackable progress.

✔ Achievable – A realistic pace for a professional in the industry (not over committing to an unmanageable spree).

✔ Relevant – Directly aligns with the killer’s long-term ambitions of perfecting their craft.

✔ Time-bound – Has a strict deadline (December 31st).

✔ Individualized – Tailored to the killer’s unique modus operandi.

Our vampire's resolution looks better: “to feed only on eco-friendly, organic-conscious folks with well-kept work-life balance this year” but still is not SMARTI. It’s vague: what even counts as "eco-friendly"? Are we talking vegan yoga instructors or just people who recycle? There is no measurement: How many organic-conscious victims per week?; no timeline, no tracking method, and no individualization.

Let’s turn it into a SMARTI goal: "I will exclusively feed on at least 3 ethically sourced, organic- conscious individuals per week, ensuring they meet my sustainability criteria (vegan diet only, who compost, and have a verified work-life balance). I will document it in my 'Vampire Ethical Consumption Ledger.' By the end of the year, I will reduce my carbon fang-print by 30%.” (A carbon fang-print: a measurement of vampire’s environmental impact based on their’s feeding habits and lifestyle choices).

Why this is a SMARTI goal:

✔ Specific – Defines who qualifies as a viable target and how often.

✔ Measurable – Blood consumption is tracked through the Vampire Ethical Consumption Ledger, and the carbon fang-print is quantifiable (30% reduction).

✔ Achievable – A realistic pace for a vampire looking to maintain both health and sustainability.

✔ Relevant – Aligns with the vampire’s dietary ethics and personal mission of sustainable feasting.

✔ Time-bound – weekly and yearly goals are set.

✔ Individualized – This is tailored to this vampire’s ethical lifestyle—other vampires might still prefer aristocratic blood or an all-you-can-tap buffet.

Is our poltergeist ghost’s New Year’s resolution “to put some beat on its chaotic activities, and flicker the lights or slam cabinet doors to Bob Marley’s tune” SMARTI?

Let’s check it out!

✔ Specific – No! “Put some beat to Bob Marley’s tune” is quite vague.

✔ Measurable – Nope! How can we determine that all of the flickering and slamming is actually in tune?

✔ Achievable – Probably! “Putting some beat” sounds rather simple to do.

✔ Relevant – Yes! It aligns with the poltergeist’s core purpose of supernatural disturbance.

✔ Time-bound – Not really! There’s no deadline for when this musical haunting should be mastered.

✔ Individualized – Yes! This is not a generic haunting strategy—it’s personalized to the ghost’s artistic ambitions and musical taste.

Let’s revise it to make it 100% SMARTI resolution:

"By June 30th, I will master flickering lights and slamming cabinet doors in perfect rhythm to ‘Three Little Birds’ beats and progressing to fully blown ‘No Woman, No Cry’ performed on all kitchen cabinetry doors and under cabinet lights. I will document my progress by scaring at least three paranormal investigators who will confirm the haunting's musical accuracy on their social media."

✔ Now it has a deadline (June 30th)

✔ Song choices are clear (starting point, progression plan)

✔ It’s measurable (ghost hunters’ reaction = proof of success)

✔ Structured approach (from basic beats to full reggae ghost orchestra)

Final Thought

If you're scared to commit to a New Year’s resolution, seek refuge in etymology. Resolution comes from the Latin root "resolutio", meaning "loosening, untying, or breaking down into simpler parts."

So, just loosen up a bit in 2025—starting now.

I know, that’s not a SMARTI goal.

But it is a FUN goal.

(And FUN is not an acronym. Just pure joy).

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Andi Kopek is a multidisciplinary artist based in Nashville, TN. With a background in medicine, molecular neuroscience, and behavioral change, he has recently devoted himself entirely to the creative arts. His debut poetry collection, Shmehara, has garnered accolades in both literary and independent film circles for its innovative storytelling.

When you’re in Nashville, you can join Andi at his monthly poetry workshop, participate in the Libri Prohibiti book club (both held monthly at the Spine bookstore, Smyrna, TN), or catch one of his live performances. When not engaging with the community, he's hard at work on his next creative project or preparing for his upcoming art-focused podcast, The Samovar(t) Lounge: Steeping Conversations with Creative Minds, where in a relaxed space, invited artists share tea and the never-told intricacies of their creative journeys.

FB: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100093119557533

IG: https://www.instagram.com/andi.kopek/

X: https://twitter.com/andikopekart

TT:   www.tiktok.com/@andi.kopek

If They'd Mentioned This in The Beginning…

By Chris Berg and Paul James Smith

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Wayyyy back in the day and often around four or five in the morning, Paul and I would 69 our patrol cars and talk. Yak, prattle, blabber, and natter. . .gab, gossip, banter, and jabber. After all, it was the middle of the night, and if the city wasn't behaving badly, we had the time.

Often, we'd take up behind a Shell station on our beat, and drink thermoses of coffee and share our experiences during the shift, hopes of things to come and dreams yet unrealized, but usually well into development. 

Very often, we'd talk about writing. The little tidbits we'd authored for our friends or—more often—just for ourselves. We didn't know it then, but we were on our way.

If someone had told us that writing a book wasn't more than just tippy-tap-typing away in our favorite club chair, mid-shelf scotch on the armrest, and a cozy, flickering flame gently warming a walnut-paneled study, well, we wouldn't have believed it. Hell, we just assumed we had Wambaugh skills, or when we got really up in ourselves, Hemingway was in our sights. After more than a few years seriously devoted to this exercise, apparently 'learning the craft' turns out to be a real thing.

We've come a long way, since those days on Beat 1 and are more dedicated than ever to getting it right. Still...it would've been sobering to know the following:

Embarking on the path from learning the craft of writing to publishing with a traditional publisher is no simple feat. It's a winding road filled with twists and turns, but for most of us, the promise of seeing your work in print and sharing it with a wider audience makes the journey worth the effort.

Let's dive into the experience step by step:

Learning the Craft

Every author's adventure kicks off with taking a crack at mastering the art of storytelling. This phase is like the foundation of a grand building, essential and ever evolving.

• Reading Extensively: Most writers start by devouring books in their genre and beyond. It's like a crash course in different writing styles and narrative techniques.

• Formal Education: Some authors opt for formal education in creative writing, but it's not a must. MFA programs and writing workshops are just one way to sharpen those skills.

• Practice and Experimentation: Writers hone their craft through years of practice. That's right, years of practice. From short stories to novel drafts, it's all about flexing those creative muscles.

• Studying Writing Techniques: Many authors dive into books on writing craft, attend workshops, and join writing groups to level up their skills.

Writing the Manuscript

Once confidence blooms, or some version of that, authors often find themselves diving headfirst into crafting their manuscript. For most, it becomes a labor of love in the making.

• Drafting: Writing that first draft can be a marathon. Months or years may pass, depending on the complexity of the tale.

• Revising: Countless rounds of revisions follow the initial draft. Plot tweaks, character arcs, and prose polishing are all part of the process.

• Self-Editing: Before seeking outside help, authors need to fine-tune their work through self-editing.

• Taking a Break: Stepping away from the manuscript for a breather allows for fresh eyes during the editing phase. We've found this little step really helpful in many ways.

• Multiple Passes: Self-editing involves various rounds focusing on different aspects like plot, sentence structure, and proofreading. Some get caught in an endless loop, finding it difficult to ever find their manuscript worthy of the next steps. Just another hurdle to conquer.

Professional Editing 

Many authors choose to work with professional editors to further refine their manuscript. Not cheap, but in our view, absolutely necessary. And, for what it's worth, defining the editing steps below is not an absolute. Authors will find a wide range of definitions, but in the grand scheme, this is close.

• Developmental Editing: This focuses on the big-picture elements of the story, such as plot, character development, and pacing.

• Line Editing: This involves a detailed examination of the manuscript's language, focusing on style, clarity, and flow.

• Copyediting: This stage addresses grammar, spelling, punctuation, and consistency issues.

• Proofreading: The final stage of editing, which catches any remaining errors.

Querying Agents

With a polished manuscript in hand, authors venture into the world of querying literary agents, a nerve-wracking, usually lengthy, but necessary series of steps.

• Research: Finding agents who champion their genre is key. A well-crafted query letter showcasing the book and the author's prowess is essential. Sounds simple—it is not. Paul and I recall an agent, apparently giddy with himself, telling us, he likes to "see how many queries I can reject while waiting for the light to change." Luckily, in our experience, that's not routinely the case.

• Submission: Following agent guidelines, authors send out query letters (sounds simple—it is not) and requested materials, bracing for the waiting game.

• Waiting and Responding: Rejections may, no wait...will come, but authors can often use feedback to fine-tune their pitch and manuscript for the next round.

Acquiring an Agent

If an agent shows interest, the manuscript gets a closer look. If representation is offered, a new chapter in the author's journey begins.

• Negotiation: Terms are discussed, and agreements are signed, marking the start of a professional partnership.

• Manuscript Revisions: Further tweaks may be suggested to make the manuscript shine even brighter.

Submission to Publishers

The agent then takes the helm, submitting the manuscript to potential publishers, hoping to find the perfect match.

• Preparing Submission Package: Crafting a compelling pitch, synopsis, and author bio is crucial for catching the eye of publishers.

• Submission: The agent sends out the package to targeted editors, aiming for that coveted book deal.

• Auctions: In some cases, multiple publishers vying for the manuscript can lead to an auction, ensuring the best outcome for the author. Never been an author that wasn't praying for this situation!

Publishing Process

Once a publisher bites, the publishing journey truly begins, from contract negotiations to the book's grand release.

• Contract Negotiation: The nitty-gritty details of the publishing contract are ironed out by the agent.

• Editorial Process: Collaborating with the publisher's editors, the author refines the manuscript further. Yep, that's right. More edits.

• Production: From cover design to proofreading, the book undergoes various production stages.

• Marketing and Publicity: The publisher crafts marketing strategies, if you're lucky, with the author's input, to promote the book.

• Release: Finally, the book sees the light of day, typically a year or more after the contract signing. Did, someone mention this is a journey?

This is a marathon, not a sprint, demanding grit, patience, and a hunger for growth. While every author's tale is unique, these steps paint a broad picture of the traditional publishing process. So, here's to all the aspiring authors out there—may your journey be filled with words, wonder, and a touch of magic!

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Chris Berg and Paul James Smith began their careers as beat partners in California's Bay Area, quickly advancing to detective roles. Chris excelled in vice and intelligence, finding his niche as an undercover narcotics detective. He thrived in the world of hand-to-hand drug ‘buys,’ clandestine lab investigations, and the requisite counterfeit personas. Later, he became a narco field training officer and a court-certified expert witness in narcotics investigations.

Paul brings 31 years of law enforcement experience, serving as a field training officer, federal agent, Special Response Team member, sniper/instructor, National Tactical Team leader, and Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force program manager.

Lifelong friends and writing partners for nearly a decade, Chris and Paul craft thrillers inspired by true events. Their diverse backgrounds enrich both their writing and storytelling. They are Claymore Award winners and Pageturner Award finalists. Together, they write The Night Police novels and currently have three manuscripts in development: Blood Brothers, Twilight at Wolfie's, and Blood in the Water.

This Crazy Writing Life: Defining Irony In The Time Of Covid

By Steven Womack

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In this month’s installment of This Crazy Writing Life, my original intent was to start where I left off with last month’s column on eBook distribution and explore the options and possibilities of print.

That was the plan, but as someone once told me, we make plans; God laughs.

So before we move onto more serious stuff, a little sidebar.

The last half of August saw something we’ve never seen before—two major mystery conferences were taking place in Nashville in back-to-back weeks. Killer Nashville, of course, is now a major regional conference that draws writers and readers from all over the country, if not the world. The week after KN, Nashville hosted Bouchercon, the World Mystery Convention, the largest gathering of mystery writers and fans in the world.

This was, to paraphrase a conversation Joe Biden had with Barack Obama after the passage of the Affordable Care Act, a big effin’ deal… This has literally never happened before. For two weeks or so, Music City became the center of the mystery world.

I can’t remember the last time I was so excited about something. I’ve been pretty transparent about my struggles in the writing career arena. When I left academia in 2020—after the college where I’d been teaching for twenty-five years quite literally closed its doors and went out of business—I’ve been trying to resurrect a writing career that was once almost promising.

So I signed up for both, with great relish.

I was thrilled when I was assigned four panels at Killer Nashville. At Bouchercon—where the competition for panels is somewhat stiffer—I was assigned one. This felt great. It was like the old days, back in the Nineties, when I was a full-time mystery writer and making a living at it.

Then, ten days before Killer Nashville opened, I woke up with a fever about five o’clock in the morning. I tried to slough it off, but after a few hours, I decided to take a Covid test.

Positive…

Everything went downhill from there. I’m an old guy, an immuno-compromised cancer survivor. When I still tested positive and still sick after a week, I cancelled Killer Nashville. A week later, same results.

So long, Bouchercon.

And want to know the irony of this? One of the panels I was scheduled to be on at Killer Nashville was “Handling Successes and Setbacks As A Writer.”

The universe has a weird sense of humor. I had to cancel my appearance on a panel about handling setbacks because I had one of the biggest setbacks in quite awhile.

Define irony…

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So let’s talk about print books and how you indie pub them. We’ll start with a few basic assumptions.

First, most indie pub authors I’ve ever met make most of their sales (and, therefore, most of their money) from eBooks. So if you want to delve into the print arena, just be aware that it’s an awful lot of effort and cost for the least return. For many writers these days, the juice isn’t worth the squeeze. On the other hand, there’s nothing like the feel, smell and heft of a real book.

Second, the technical aspects of producing print books are way more complicated and demanding than eBooks. Why? Because eBooks are marked by flowability, which means you don’t have to typeset them. The text just flows out of the ether and into the e-reader. There’s no set trim size. The user actually determines the font, point size, leading, and measure. Actually, in real life whatever device the user is reading them on determines these factors by default and the user can change them if they’re savvy enough.

(As an aside, don’t know what point size, font, leading, and measure mean? Then you’ve got an even higher technical hill to climb…)

Third, be aware that the print landscape is a little more complicated if you hope to sell print books in both brick-and-mortar bookstores and Amazon. No brick-and-mortar bookstore will order a print copy of your book from Amazon and set it on their shelves. For one thing, most bookstores hate Amazon with a fiery, searing, scorching passion. More than that, bookstores depend on wholesale discounts and returnability for survival and Amazon’s not about to help them on that front. So what this means is you’ve got to upload one set of files to Amazon and one to a wholesale book distributor. And then you hope to high heaven the same files will work for both outlets.

Fourth, unless you have a garage the size of a warehouse and deep pockets, you’re not going to go the old school route of finding a book printer to print up a few thousand of your books and then ship them to your home address. Chances are they’ll sit in your garage until the mice find them, at which point you’ll have a bunch of fat, happy mice on your hands. And if you do get lucky enough to sell a few of them, you’ll be buying cardboard shipping boxes, packing tape, and bubble wrap, then loading up the old SUV for a trip to the Post Office or UPS. If you’re not up for that, then you’re going print-on-demand, or as it’s commonly called “POD.” And that, as they say, is a whole nother ball of wax itself.

When I decided to tackle indie pubbing print books, I had a built-in advantage. Early in my career, I spent about a decade working in publishing in New York City and Nashville. I worked mainly in art departments, where I typeset books, ads, catalogues, brochures, and a ton of other stuff. But what I mostly did was interior book formatting/typesetting. I’ve probably either typeset or supervised the typesetting of a few hundred books over the years.

So those terms I threw at you earlier? What do they mean?

A font is the particular typeface you’re using. There are hundreds of typefaces and families of type, but all fonts can be broken down into basically two types: serif and sans serif. Serif typefaces have a small stroke or curlicue attached to the larger, main body of the letter. Sans serif typefaces don’t have these add-ons and the letters are just lines. If you bring up your word processor and type a few words in Arial, then type the same few words in Times Roman, you’ll see the difference. Most books are typeset in serif typefaces, except for certain types like manuals, guidebooks, nonfiction, etc. Most fiction is set in the more traditional serif typefaces, which tend to have, for lack of a better term, a classier look to them.

Point size is literally the physical size of the type. There are 72 points in an inch. Most books are typeset in around 12-point type, with some variations. Really long, thick doorstopper books might be set in point sizes less than 12. Down around 10-point type, though, they get mighty hard to read.

Leading is the distance between the lines, called that because years ago when books were typeset by hand, the typesetter inserted thin strips of lead between the lines to separate them. Most books are typeset with an extra few points on top of the point size. The point size/leading is usually expressed as a fraction, i.e. 12/15. When there’s no extra space between the lines, as in a book set in 12/12 Times Roman, that’s said to be set solid. And for anyone beyond the age of twelve, they’re really hard to read. Almost no one does it.

Measure is the width of the line, which is directly related to your trim size and margins. You want to have some kind of margin on each page; you don’t want the type to run from one edge to the next. You’ve got to design it just right to hit that visually appealing sweet spot. You don’t want too much white space or too little around your page of text. This also affects your page count, which is critical.

So there in just over 300 words is a summary of my decades in typesetting. But there’s a lot more to learn. Know the difference between a widow and an orphan and why you want to avoid both? There’s not room here to get into that, but Google it. It’s fascinating stuff. Trust me.

Once you’re ready to get into actually formatting a print book, where do you start? The easiest way is to get a dedicated app for typesetting, but truth is you can typeset a book on Microsoft Word. I’ve done it. It’s a PITA and I won’t do it again, but when I started six or seven years ago, there wasn’t much else out there. Vellum typesets books, but as I mentioned in an earlier column, Vellum only works on a Mac platform.

And for many years, the go-to software package for interior book design (and many other forms of graphic design) was Adobe InDesign. It does everything and does it well. But like all things Adobe, it’s expensive to start with and requires decades of study on a lonely mountaintop in Tibet to master it (okay, decades? Maybe I’m overstating a bit…).

Kindle Create is free, as is Reedsy’s Book Editor app. I don’t know much about them, though. There are a few other paid packages. Just Google them and get reviews.

I wrote last month about Atticus, which is produced by a company here in Franklin, Tennessee called Kindlepreneur. In the past year or so, they’ve added a print typesetting function to what has emerged as the best eBook formatting software in the business. Every review I’ve read of it is spectacular, but since I haven’t indie pubbed a book since their print functionality went online, I’ve got no personal experience. But if it’s like everything else Kindlepreneur does, it kicks butt and takes names.

We’ve barely scratched the surface on the technical challenges and considerations of print book formatting and design and I’m already out of space for this month’s edition. So I’ll stop here and next month we’ll move on to the differences between an eBook cover and a print book cover, how you make a cover work, and then onto the challenge of making book distribution outlets work for you.

As you’ve seen, This Crazy Writing Life is a grand adventure. Thanks again for playing along.

Gotta Go Through It

By Chrissy Hicks

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Have you ever heard the children’s song, “Going on a Bear Hunt?” My toddler requests this often—either for me to sing the tune for her or play it during car rides.

The main plotline involves a group of people (or a couple, depending on the version) going on a bear hunt, claiming they’re “not scared.” However, after overcoming several roadblocks and approaching the bear in a cave, they realize the terrifying result of their actions and run away. As they face each obstacle, they sing the same chorus, “We can’t go over it, can’t go under it, gotta go through it,” before proceeding through the barrier. 

It had me thinking—partly because this song is frequently stuck in my head—that this idea of going through obstacles is a lot like the writing journey. The initial blocks you might face when starting out might be: finding ideas, getting the first draft fully written, carving out time to write, determining whether you’re a plotter or pantser (or somewhere in between), finding a supportive writing community. Once you get past this, your next hurdle is to polish your manuscript so shiny you’re not sure you want to look at it anymore; this often involves the recruitment of beta readers and editors. Once you’ve leaped over all that, you have yet another hill to climb: how will you share this book with the world? Self-publish? Hybrid? Approach small publishers directly? Find an agent? Each of these options presents an entire list of risks and rewards each, but let’s take finding an agent as an option, for the sake of example. You decide to query your novel—this book you’ve spent countless hours writing, revising, rewriting, revising again—and you spend an incredible chunk of time researching agents, perfecting your query, and emailing these agents, hoping you get a “yes.” When you do finally get your acceptance and you sign with an agent, it feels like Christmas. You’ve found your “bear.” The hunt is over.

Except it’s not. It’s only just begun.

Agents get rejected by editors and publishing houses too. They deal with their own set of setbacks. And what happens when a publisher accepts the manuscript? And it’s published? There’s yet another slew of expectations for the writer when it comes to marketing their book (or at least assisting with the process). Plus, the publisher will likely want more material (not just a single book), so you find yourself back to the beginning, with a fresh page and a whole new set of challenges. When you find yourself in this place, so close to your goals, terrifying as it all may seem, will this scare you away? Or will you stay the course?

The point of this brief exposition isn’t to deter you from writing. The point is simply this: there’s not much you can control outside of your writing and your dedication to the craft. You can’t control whether agents will sign with you, whether readers will like your work, whether you hit the New York Times Bestseller list or barely earn out your advance. So, what will you do when you face these obstacles? If you can’t go over it, can’t go under it, will you move through it?

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Chrissy’s work has appeared in three consecutive issues of Bridgewater State University’s “Embracing Writing” book for first-year freshmen. Her writing portfolio also includes publications in The Broadkill Review, SUSIE Mag, The Storyteller, and informative pieces for a local online newspaper. One of her unpublished novels, Foul Play, was a Suspense Finalist for the 2022 Claymore Award, and an excerpt from her unpublished novel Overshadow won Top Three Finalist of the 2024 Thomas Mabry Creative Writing Award. Though her background is in counseling, having earned a master’s degree in this field, when it comes to the art of writing, she’s an autodidact. She studies books she loves and enjoys completing various creative writing classes online, and attending writer’s conferences whenever she can; Killer Nashville is one of her favorites. Additionally, she’s volunteered since 2023 as a general editor for the Killer Nashville Magazine. She resides in Tennessee with her family, their talkative Husky, and a frenetic cat. You can find her online here: https://chrissyhicks.wordpress.com/ where she occasionally blogs about the writing life and reviews craft books.

The Indie Pubbing Journey Continues—Part Three: The Learning Curve

By Steven Womack

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When I was young, I wasn’t afraid to tackle anything technical. Someone sold me an ancient Alfa Romeo sedan back in the 1970s for a few hundred dollars. The engine ran rough and coughed out blue smoke, so I decided to rebuild it. Had I ever rebuilt an engine before?

Absolutely not.

Did I have any idea what I was doing?

Nope.

I had a manual and that was it. No YouTube videos, no old Italian mechanic to mentor me… Just a box of parts, a paperback book with pictures, and a toolbox. So I went out into the driveway and went to work. Several weekends later, I added new oil to the engine and cranked it up. It actually ran a little bit better, once I got it running. Then I did the first really smart thing I’d done since I bought the old Alfa.

I sold it to someone else.

In the early days of computers—I’m talking Windows 3.1 here—if my computer had some kind of weird hiccup or wasn’t doing something I needed it to do, I opened up the Windows registry and tinkered with individual lines of code.

Would I open the hood on my computer or my car in this day and age and start digging around inside it?

Hell, no.

I don’t even change my own oil anymore. I don’t know whether cars and computers have gotten exponentially more complicated or I’ve become a technological wuss. Probably a little bit of both…

So when I decided to indie pub my Harry James Denton Music City Murders out-of-print series backlist from Ballantine Books, I confess to a little fear and trepidation about the technical challenges of making that happen. But I also knew I didn’t have the resources to pay somebody else to do everything for me, so I had to swap out my lack of cash for hours of sweat equity. Facing fears trumped lack of resources, so I started with the eBook editions and did a pretty deep dive into options for creating them.

I quickly discovered that one of the most popular apps for eBook formatters is Vellum. Every writer I surveyed who used Vellum loved it, although many folks offered it had a bit of a steep learning curve. It’s powerful, flexible, and very widely used in the indie pubbing space. At a couple hundred bucks, I thought it was a little pricey but not so much as to be a deal breaker. What was a deal breaker for me, though, was it’s only available for Macs. I’m a longtime Windows kinda guy, so that eliminated Vellum for me.

I found another software package from a British company called Jutoh. When I bought it seven or eight years ago, I think I paid like thirty-five bucks for it, so the price was right. It’s a quick and easy download and there’s lots of support for it. I ran into a few technical problems and challenges, and I found Jutoh’s support team was quick to respond, despite the seven-hour time difference. When I first started my indie pubbing adventure, there were a number of different formats out there. Most of the eBook distributors—Apple, Google, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, etc.—used the .epub format, while Amazon, of course, had to make thing complicated by developing its own proprietary eBook format, the infamous .mobi file (thankfully, Amazon has let the .mobi format sunset and now uses .epub like everyone else). Jutoh was able to handle them all as well as other formats like ODT (OpenDocument) files and .pdf.

For a few years, Jutoh was it for me. Then I began to get hints of another option out there, an app called Atticus. Curious, I started digging around and the more I dug, the more intrigued I became.

Before I go any further, let me state for the record this is not an ad for any one app or the other. I’m not getting paid for any of this (God forbid, writers should get paid…) and the folks at Atticus don’t even know I’m writing this. This is all based solely on my own experience.

So after a pretty deep dive into Atticus, I decided to go for it. I haven’t looked back since.

Atticus is the eBook (and in its latest revs, print book) formatting app that’s become the gold standard for indie pubbers. It was created by a company called Kindlepreneur, which curiously is located just down the road from me in Franklin, Tennessee (also the home of Killer Nashville). The founder of Kindlepreneur is Dave Chesson, who brings many years of experience in publishing and as a book marketer to the company.

I had the pleasure of meeting Dave Chesson at the annual Novelists, Inc. conference in St. Petersburg Beach a couple years ago. Not only is he a genuinely nice guy, he’s also obsessed with creating tools designed to help indie publishers succeed. He has a podcast, a blog, a YouTube channel, has created a ton of courses—some free and some at minimal cost—and with Atticus has given writers a way to easily and quickly format both eBooks and print. I won’t go into the technical aspects of Atticus because I’m already over my word count, but there are a ton of tutorials out there that will make the Atticus learning curve manageable and even enjoyable.

And once you get your books formatted, you can get—as I did—at very modest cost Kindlepreneur’s Publisher Rocket app, which will help you optimize your keyword and category listings on Amazon (and trust me, that is much harder than formatting).

Next month, we’ll take up the subject of where to sell your indie-pubbed books. The choices there are as varied and as complicated as any other decisions you’ll make. Are you starting to get a sense of what it means to independently publish your own books? You aren’t just self-publishing (again, a term I hate). You’re creating a business.

Which is one grand adventure…

That’s it for episode #5 of This Crazy Writing Life. Thanks for playing along.